Earth Stood Hard As Iron
by Winter Winks 221
Summary: My 2017 collection of Sherlock Holmes Christmas stories for Hades Lord of the Dead's annual Sherlock Holmes Advent Calendar Challenge!
1. Hot Chocolate Burns

Prompt: Burned by Hot Chocolate

From: cjnwriter

...

From a tender age, both my brother Mycroft- my senior by seven years- and myself, were recognised to be intellectual beyond our infant years.

We were quick to master mathematics, English and foreign languages before we reached double digits. In addition, I had learned to play the violin to such an extent that my parents wasted no opportunity to show how talented I was. We were also more mature than our less intelligent peers, and even our teachers, governesses and nannies.

However, I recall that from roughly eight years of age, I had chanced on a sense of humour and a talent for pulling off mischievous stunts on our teachers- and Mycroft, of course.

For I ask that question only philosophical younger children can understand; what is childhood without pranking one's elder sibling?

I remember one such prank which now to this day has Mycroft ever distrustful of my admittedly poor hosting skills.

And no, dear reader- I can assure you I did not attempt to poison my brother- although I could do so to a degree which is not fatal, but enough to cause some psychological trauma.

No, no, that will never do. Lazy and interfering he may be, but Queen and country need Mycroft to keep political relations between Great Britain and other countries from stretching breaking point. In addition, he does make for a convenient 'key' should I ever end up in jail.

But I digress. I must not repeat any literary blunders that my dear Watson does so often in his woeful attempts to recount our adventures.

...

 _I was eight years old when Mycroft ruined an experiment I was conducting._

 _I was investigating whether frog's blood would react with sodium sulphate and phosphorus iodide when my father came marching into my room, Nanny sobbing and wringing her hands behind him._

" _Yes, Father?" I asked, trying to be polite as I was taught, even though I wanted to be left alone to work on my experiment._

" _Sherlock, it's not becoming of you to be mucking about with filthy toad blood! You are being raised to become a sophisticated, intelligent young man with a future in Oxford University- and here you are idling away your time on this!"_

" _You're wrong, Father," I informed him, snippily- a poor choice, for I merely received a sharp clip on the head._

" _And give me one reason why doing...this, is not a waste of your time, son?" He asked me, icily._

" _It's frog's blood I'm using, not toad's," I answered, defiantly. "And for the record"-_

" _And nothing! Why couldn't you be more like your brother?" He grunted. "At least he knows better than to dirty his hands like a biologist! Now clear this mess up, Sherlock, or else you'll have your ears boxed!"_

 _Eyes burning, I began to tidy away the experiment, scooping up the dead frog into a small box and swiftly disposing of the corpse with a mournful air. My chemistry set was immediately confiscated- including my dissection scalpel._

 _Mycroft smirked at me with an air of brotherly superiority as I screamed and tried to cling to Father's legs to prevent my prized chemistry set being taken away,_

 _In response to this cruel and unjust turn of events, I defiantly emptied the vial of frog's blood into the begonia plants, once my tears had dried._

 _..._

 _Laying on my bed that night, melancholy that I could not experiment for at least two weeks, I wondered how I could wreak havoc on Mycroft for ruining my plans to run experiments._

 _Worse still, I was off school for winter and I had little to do but read and play violin. That alone did not sound appealing in the slightest; although enjoyable enough, there was only so much of certain pastimes I could stand due to my intellectual prowess._

 _I immediately decided to play a prank on Mycroft in revenge for turning me in to Nanny; like I was some mere delinquent!_

 _I regretted pouring the frog's blood into the begonias; it could have made a wonderful weapon. But I decided that I would have to be subtler than that._

 _..._

 _Some days later, I was out with Mycroft and Mother for the 'winter markets' for some Christmas shopping. I normally despise such events, as the people there do not understand my precocious and curious nature, and they regard me as a 'freak'._

Well, I just think they were being stupid. Most people still are- except Watson. And Mrs. Hudson. They understand me just a bit better than everyone else.

 _This year, however, there was a new stall I did not recollect seeing last year. It was filled with strange vegetables of varying colours- reds, yellows and greens. They were long and thin, like writing chalks. Mycroft and Mother hurried on past it, whilst I remained behind, looking at the vegetables._

" _You buy chili pepper?" Asked the man. He was not from England. I deduced he was from a poor district in India due to his style and state of dress; he was unmarried due to his unkempt beard and clothing; he had no family; he was escaping India for something here in Britain- but I was uncertain what that would be._

" _You buy chili pepper?" He asked again, in frightfully poor English._

 _Overcome with curiosity, I nodded and fished out a half crown. I paid, and took a small handful. But before I could eat one, he gave me a warning cough._

" _Careful! Pepper hot! Boy eat, tongue go burn!" He said, pointing to the 'chili peppers.'_

 _Realising I had wasted my money, I was about to ask for it back when I saw Mycroft, talking to Mother further up at a stall selling baked goods, and an idea struck._

" _You mean, if someone ate these, it would burn?" I asked._

" _Yes. Not forever- just hot for minutes."_

" _Thank you," I said, and I rushed off, stuffing the peppers in my pocket. I had a plan formulating in my head to pay brother dear out for wreaking destruction on my plans._

 _..._

 _Once back home, our fingers frozen and our toes nearly numb from ploughing through the thick snows of London, Cook made tea for my mother, and some hot cocoa for Mycroft and I._

 _We accepted our mugs gratefully, and we each blew on our mugs before taking a sip._

 _At once, Mycroft's eyes widened as though realising he had been poisoned._

 _He dropped his mug of hot cocoa on the floor, screamed at how his tongue was on fire, and in an ungraceful manner befitting a fifteen-year-old of his maturity, started running around the room like a headless chicken, trying to find some source of water to douse the burning on his tongue._

 _He tripped over the Persian rug, he nearly knocked Nanny into an Imperial Chinese vase, he stumbled over his feet like a mindless pigeon and he even shouted an Italian curse when he stubbed his toe on a kitchen chair._

 _During all this, I howled with laughter in my chair- I laughed so much, I nearly dropped my mug of hot cocoa on the floor too, and I had tears pouring down my burning cheeks._

 _Amidst Mycroft's spilled cocoa, I could see my choice weapon, now drenched in chocolate- cut up chili peppers._

...

See, I did not poison Mycroft!

After all, what was the use in poisoning him? As I said before, this country needs him. Our Gracious Queen needs him.

And most importantly, I need him.

Blast this display of brotherly sentiment! I beg of you; do not, and I mean do not repeat that to Watson- or, Heaven forbid; Mycroft.

Now, good night.


	2. Out of Fuel

Prompt: Running out of winter fuel

From: mrspencil

...

This was the last stakeout I would ever take in the snowy weather again- especially if Inspector Lestrade and Holmes have been going at each other once more with their usual quarrelling.

"If you had listened to me, Lestrade, we wouldn't be in this mess!" Holmes fumed. "It is just like you and you your men to blunder your jobs and your reputations in one fell blow!"

"Hmph!" Snorted Lestrade, indignantly. "If you would give my men half the credit they deserve, Mr. Holmes, maybe you would see no reason to mock us for our supposed incompetence!"

"I am the only reason you and your men are yet to be put into the poorhouse!" My friend snapped churlishly, folding his arms across his chest and raising an eyebrow at the long-suffering inspector.

I attempted to poke at the now dying embers of the makeshift fire in the fireplace with a dead branch.

Holmes, Lestrade and myself were pursuing a serial killer who had been decapitating innocent women for seemingly no reason, earning the nickname of 'King Henry VIII' or as Lestrade put it 'the bloody wife killer with more power than chivalry.'

A young woman named Sarah Steel had suspected the killer of stalking her, waiting to kill her. So, Holmes and Lestrade had been hired- each without the other's knowledge- to help find and arrest the killer and ensure he could not harm the lady.

Holmes' hunt took us to an abandoned mansion; about seven miles or so from London. There, in the grounds, we met Lestrade and after finding our missions were joined, we decided to double up and work together.

Well, I decided to. Holmes just grumbled about it, and called me a traitor to logic and his very being. I merely called him out for being so overdramatic and told him to shut up.

...

The fire was threatening to die on me, like so many of my loyal comrades on the Afghan sands, and I attempted to try and keep the fire going with what meagre debris I could find in our desolate watch spot.

Alas, it was not enough, and I found to my horror that my right leg began to seize up with the cold. The scar on my left shoulder also began to tighten painfully, like some unseen fist, and I let out an involuntary cry- causing Holmes and Lestrade to cease their arguing.

"Watson! You haven't been shot again, have you?" Holmes asked me in alarm, hurrying to my side and keeping a distrustful eye out for revolvers.

"By Jove, Doctor!" Lestrade jumped to his feet, his rat-like face pinched with concern. "Whatever happened? You sounded like someone shot you!"

I glared- I did appreciate those horrible reminders. "My wounds, they merely had a spasm." I explained as calmly as possible. "But I am fine, really. No medical aid required, thank you."

It was then that Holmes realised that the fire in the grate... had extinguished. I had failed to keep the last of it alive, and now we were low on fuel for the rest of the stakeout.

Lestrade was studying the landscape outside, where a smaller building housed Gregson, Hopkins and a third inspector.

"No signal from my men." The inspector reported, stepping back from the window with caution. "So far, there's been no sign of 'His Majesty.'"

Holmes cursed as he looked at his pocket watch- surprisingly unaffected by the cold atmosphere. "He will be due to strike at any moment, Lestrade."

"Well, it'd be madness to get Watson to go out in this weather." Lestrade mused. "Especially since it looks like it will snow again shortly."

Holmes let out a string of colourful curses that only a sailor could ever possibly know; or possibly a private consulting detective infiltrating a dockside in the guise and manner of a sailor.

"We cannot leave Watson here!"

"I know we can't bloody leave!"

The situation was looking very dire indeed- I was suddenly rendered useless to my companions due to my old wounds; a snow storm was approaching with Lestrade's men less than five feet from us and a decapitating serial killer was on the loose in the countryside outside.

I swear there just seems to be something about serial killers lurking about when one of us suddenly needs help. Or perhaps it is the other way around?

Lestrade took off his coat and placed it over my shoulders, in a silent, almost fraternal gesture. Touched, I smile at him, and he merely nodded in return.

"Lestrade, you will freeze"- Holmes said- so surprised by the inspector's kind gesture that he suddenly committed the same unspeakable offence he so often accused Gregson of in the past.

"Mr. Holmes, if I freeze to death tonight, I will at least be dying for one the best men I have known in all of God-gracious England," Lestrade answered, and I grinned- the little inspector's famed bulldog tenacity was present in his voice; stronger than steel and firmer than bark.

Not to mention his heartfelt sentiments about his feelings towards me.

Holmes managed a wry smile at our companion.

"Inspector, that might have just been the craziest thing you have said in all our years of this unusual partnership. But, I can wholly agree with you and your sentiments." He said warmly, steely eyes softening to the Inspector.

"Well, I may not be a man of your brains, Holmes, but I am a man of my word." Lestrade answered warmly and sincerely.

Then he suddenly froze as a shadow flitted past the window.

A small light flickered across the window of the other building.

The signal.

The chase was on.


	3. Burned Turkey

Prompt: Mrs Hudson's Christmas cooking

From: cjnwriter

...

A shiver ran up her spine as she carried home some potatoes and carrots fresh from the market. Footsteps quickened down the pavement towards Baker Street.

...

Mrs. Hudson knew at once there was trouble arising in her flat at 221 Baker Street. And she needed only one guess as to whom was behind it...

Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson.

As much as she loved her two tenants, she was bone weary of handling their antics; may it be risking their lives to bring London's notorious killers to the gallows or merely setting the living room on fire from experiments gone wrong, Mrs. Hudson had seen it all. And charged for it all to boot.

So, what in Heaven's name made her think she could entrust the safety of her turkey and stuffing to her chaos-bound lodgers? They were little better than schoolboys sometimes!

...

Sure enough, Mrs. Hudson let a sigh of despair escape her as she saw smoke billowing from the windows of 221B.

"Oh dear!" She muttered to herself. "Will those two ever learn?"

Sure enough, Mr. Holmes and the Doctor were both standing outside, at least having the grace to look sheepish on seeing her approach.

"Ah, Mrs. Hudson! Welcome back..." Mr. Holmes said sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly.

"What happened, Mr. Holmes?" Asked Mrs. Hudson wearily, folding her arms and giving her lodger the 'if you do not have a reasonable explanation for setting my kitchen on fire and for getting the fire brigade out here _again_ , I will seriously consider evicting you' look.

Both men gulped.

"Well, it was just a mishap with some acetone, Mrs. Hudson," Began Holmes. "I needed some assistance dealing with it going on fire."

"Yes. Holmes burned his hand." Watson added. "So, I went to bandage it up, and..."

"We forgot about the turkey."

Mrs Hudson sighed again, with renewed exasperation.

"We're sorry, Mrs. Hudson." Watson said shamefully.

"It's a wonder how you haven't evicted us after all we've put you through," Added Holmes, sheepishly.

Their landlady shook her head fondly.

"You're my tenants." She said, smiling. "My life would be rather quiet without you gentlemen to brighten up a boring Thursday afternoon."


	4. A Landlady's Grief

Prompt: Love conquers all

From: I'm Nova

A/N: the next prompt response is funny, so I'm going to be a big meanie and whip up some angst for this response.

...

Mrs Hudson had known grief and loss when, at the age of 28, she lost her husband to a freak accident on the railway, and shortly after, she had suffered a miscarriage. She experienced the whole process; from hearing about their deaths to watching them both be buried in the same grave, being unable to obtain separate graves.

The process was the same for her at 49 as it had been at 28- Doctor Watson returned to London without the consulting detective, and morosely explained how his dearest friend had perished at Reichenbach Falls alongside Moriarty.

Mrs Hudson's world fell apart for the second time in her life. Only, this grieving process was slightly different from before.

She missed his peculiar quirks, such as him keeping his prized shag tobacco in the Persian slipper. She missed hearing his violin playing Mozart and Jean-Baptiste Anet and his own otherworldly compositions. She missed the smells of his malodourous experiments gone right and wrong.

Most of all, she missed how, in rare moments of quiet, rarely spoken, affection for those he cared about- Watson, Mycroft, Lestrade, Wiggins, Toby and herself- his steely grey eyes would soften from a determined, keen gleam to a silvery shimmer.

Sherlock Holmes had not only left behind a broken friend, but had left behind the mother who never was.

Still, she tried her best to be strong. Watson's brief presence in the flat brought on painful memories, but she made him tea and allowed him to grieve alone in their old rooms should he desire a moment of privacy. She dutifully dusted Holmes' belongings, leaving things as they were before he...he left.

Mrs Hudson herself kept her feelings buried, and, when visiting the cemetery, she would break down, and allow herself the relief she denied at Baker Street.

She left flowers for her unborn daughter and the child's father; and then, she would walk to a small memorial erected to Holmes to lay flowers, tidy it up a little, or merely speak what she could not say to his face.

As the consulting detective's body had never been retrieved from those treacherous Falls, they had instead arranged for a memorial to be built. A simple stone one, with the inscription:

' _To the man whom had his quirks and peculiarities, and was never afraid to be who he was. A beacon for justice to the wronged, a light to those who suffered unbearable anguishes at the hands of evil. But, most important of all, a man whose friendship and loyalty, though seldom given, was strongly felt and reciprocated by those closest to him.'_

It was a quote from Watson's eulogy- well, more a paragraph, but Lestrade, Hopkins, herself and Watson felt that this strongly summed up the man they had known, and had agreed to it being engraved on the memorial.


	5. I never knew you could do that!

Prompt: Watson reveals a hidden talent

From: Hades Lord of the Dead

A/N: I have no idea if this hobby actually existed in the Victorian era, but it's meant to be silly, so I hope you like this little slice of randomness regardless! And yes, _it_ is a hobby! I found it online!

Warning: One word of stronger language at the end.

Disclaimer: Millie belongs to me. Everyone else belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

...

"Watson, we're doomed!" I exclaim, yelping as I feel it nip my shoelaces.

"Holmes, it is just a gaggle of geese and ducks." My companion answers wearily.

We were on MacDonald's farm, pursuing the Hot Toddy Thief – a very long and bizarre tale which could not be surmised without a fit of hysteria- when our woman had the illogical idea to run through a farmyard.

But now, being pursued by these ferocious fowl, I begin to wonder if that madwoman maybe had some sense after all...

"Watson, deductions and chemical formulas dominate my lumber room," I say uneasily. "but how to deal with aggravated waterfowl is well beyond my ken."

Watson gives me a mischievous smile and whistles for Toby. The hound comes waddling forth, and so does a young, orphaned sheepdog named Millie, who has appeared to have adopted my Boswell for her own. Feisty and determined, she has already taken a liking to Watson, myself and to Toby.

"Watson?"

"Millie, Toby, chase those ducks!" He orders, wielding his walking stick as though it is the answer to life's mysteries.

The two dogs start barking and going after the ducks, chasing them up the way from us, with Watson using his stick to keep the ducks together in a group, leaving me to watch in amazement.

How could my erstwhile companion of 5 years be able to herd ducks so effectively? Or even herd them at all?

...

At last, after the ducks are swimming in a pond nearby, I turn to my friend.

"Watson, I"-

"Holmes, you might think me a ridiculous man"- he starts, his cheeks going pink as he looks at his walking stick.

I smile warmly at him. "Watson, you are the ridiculous one for thinking I could produce such a negative opinion of you." I say, and he manages a small smile at me. "I just want to say that, though unusual, you have certainly saved us from those pesky birds. However on Earth did you learn it?"

"Well, I had a duck-herder for a neighbour when I was a lad," Watson tells me bashfully. "I just picked up on the hobby from a young age."

"My dear fellow, you saved me a lot of trouble; along with Toby and Millie here." I gesture to the two hounds lying faithfully at our feet. "What other unusual hobbies do you have that I do not?"

"Well, I learned how to carve soaps." He answers, blushing scarlet now in comparison to his pink hues from earlier. "I could carve soap into flowers if I so wanted."

"My dear fellow, I shall never understand your limits," I tell him sincerely, putting a hand on his shoulder. "Perhaps I should make a list of what your abilities and limitations are. Do you still have the one of my abilities?"

"Yes- but I fear it's rather outdated, old friend." He informs me, remorsefully.

"Well, in that case, doctor, you can update it if you so wish." I answer. "But later- first, we're after the Hot Toddy Thief!"

"Why would someone even steal hot toddies?" He asks me, as we break into a run.

"Well, Watson, I have thought about that question as logically as one can proceed to think, and one conclusion came to my mind."

"And that is?"

"My dear fellow, I have no bloody idea."


	6. Wound

Prompt: A story told from an unusual point of view

From: cjnwriter

A/N: I think this might not have worked out as well as I hoped- just sounds a bit strange. But I hope you enjoy reading anyway! 😊

...

Born in haste, borne in reluctance.

No, I am not some sob story about some London orphan, before you ask. My father was a handmade Jezail bullet; my mother is a pale, fleshy shoulder.

I am pink, I am loud, and I have no name to go by. I am merely there because I was not asked to be.

I whine and protest to rainy days- both at home and further afield. When I feel tremendous strain, I ache. Cold air sends me flying into spastic fits.

Every night, I feel fingers graze me with the resentment only my presence can incur; yet, however, I have yet to hear one word of complaint about my existence.

However, I know that if it had not been for my very birth, the man who bears me on his left shoulder would be an incomplete man.

He would not have Sherlock Holmes for his beloved companion.


	7. The Case of the Missing Foot

Prompt: Something more from Holmes' chest of old, pre-Watson cases.

From: I'm Nova

...

A chipped magnifying lens was placed back in a brown woollen pocket, followed by the sounds of quiet murmurings of thought.

"Well, Mr. Holmes?" Lestrade asked irritably. "Wha can you make of it?"

"Patience, Lestrade," The consulting detective tutted, his eyes glinting mischievously as he sprung to his feet- not entirely appropriate considering he had just finished examining the body of a young woman on the floor.

"All we know, Mr. Holmes, are the bruises round her neck and her missing foot!" the inspector snapped, feeling very tempted to strike the smug look off the other man's face. Partially because the case needed to be solved quickly (this was just the third murder, after all) and partially because that look meant- always meant- that the consulting detective would display another talent of his.

"And I, my dear Lestrade, know that she was a 30-year-old governess, had a secret smoking habit, owned a Mastiff, and had her foot cut off with a glass knife before she was strangled." Holmes said. "Do keep up, Inspector- even the unfortunate lady's Mastiff is one step ahead of you and your men!"

Lestrade growled at Holmes' acidic remark. "We are trying our best, Mr. Holmes," He said, through gritted teeth.

Holmes turned back to the body- more specifically, the leg with the missing foot- and resumed examining for clues.

"I say, how did your meeting with Hogg go?" Lestrade asked casually.

"Shouldn't you be working on trying to do an attainable job, Inspector?"

"I would, but you're constantly trying to upstage me, Mr. Holmes." Lestrade replied, folding his arms.

"If you must know, Lestrade- which you most assuredly don't- Mr. Hogg and I are yet to come to an agreement on rent payments- and whether bacon is superior to sausages in the mornings."

"I get it- you don't like him." Lestrade finished, blinking a bit at the bizarre argument he had mentioned. Why did Holmes always end up in comical situations? Was the universe thinking Holmes had lost his sense of humour.

Now that sounded barmy.

Holmes merely grunted, breath accidentally condensing on his lens, provoking some incoherent curses in French. "I just wish, Lestrade, there was a decent chap to lodge with! I have yet to find one who is so accepting of my... unusual habits." He said, quietly.

Lestrade couldn't help but feel sympathy for his strange friend. He liked Holmes to a degree, and the insults they exchanged regularly, although acidic, no longer hurt. It had just become a sign they were on some new level of understanding than before.

Still, a companion who had the patience of a saint and the kindness of a Retriever -not to mention one who knew when to stand his ground- would make a perfect lodger, maybe even a friend, for the ever- maddening crime solving genius.

"Well, Lestrade, has it hit you yet?" Holmes asked abruptly, startling Lestrade out of his thoughts.

"Pardon, Mr. Homes?" The Inspector asked, his rat like face furrowing into a mask of confusion.

"My remark about the Mastiff?" Homes questioned, steely grey eyes pegging the Inspector much like a hawk who has found a mouse in the undergrowth. "Have you worked out the significance behind my earlier comment?"

Lestrade's eyes widened. "I thought that was just one of your attempts at putting my men and I down as being incapable of our job, Holmes."

"It was, but it was also a key part to the mystery! The Mastiff is _part_ of the case, Lestrade!"

"How so, Holmes?" He asked wearily, eyeing the dead woman's entangled black hair- looking like lifeless, knotted veins on the muddy cobblestones. Her slender white hand, marred with mud, looked oddly like a dog's pawprint, now that he looked at it more closely.

"The poor, unknowing beast was used to bury the dead woman's foot somewhere! If we find the foot, we will have found out who is responsible for this crime!"

"But we still don't know what we're looking for, Mr. Holmes." Lestrade said. "Why are we seeking the foot?"

"Inspector, all will be revealed in due course. Unless you decide to use your brain for a change." Holmes answered dryly, stuffing his hands in his pockets to seek some matches and a pipe. "Now, we need to catch a cab to Pinchin Lane! I will enquire for Toby's services for this next part of the case."

Lestrade nodded, his lips quirked into a small smile at his friend's usual sardonic wit and relentless energy to solving crimes.

Whomever Holmes' new lodger would be, may God preserve him.


	8. Elizabeth Stride's Murder

Prompt: Drip. Drip. Drip.

From: Book girl fan

WARNING: Contains graphic content of Elizabeth Stride's murder.

...

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Louis Diemshutz stared in horror at the sight illuminated by the candle flickering against the Whitechapel breeze.

At his feet, lay a woman, dressed in somewhat shabby dark clothes. On her throat, was a gaping wide cut, as though someone had taken a knife and sliced into her neck like a housewife cutting up a roast ham into slices.

Dull red blood dripped from her gash and ran into a small brook by the club door. The expression on her pale, shallow face was fixated into a gaze of terror, sending chills down Diemshutz's throat. Looking to his left, he saw the same sight brought up his friend's evening meal. He exchanged looks with his horrified companions, and found them all staring with a mixture of fear, repulse and the morbid curiosity which accompanies sensationalism.

Judging from the dead woman's appearance, she was a poor Whitechapel prostitute. And a drunk one at that, judging from the smell of alcohol on her.

Her throat was now cloaked in scarlet, and the smell of copper gagged him. A burning sensation rose in his throat, but he forced himself to swallow rather than make a fool of himself in front of everyone present.

...

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Diemshutz and a companion ran along Fairclough Street, hunting for a police officer to report the body's discovery.

The sound of the blood dripping from the fleshy, throat ripped hole made him feel weak in the stomach; but he would not repeat the shameful steps of his friend. He- they- must report the murder immediately.

"Police! Police! Murder! Murder!" He and his companions cried, as they ran down the street. Of course, in this area, this sort of cry was all too common.

But they had every reason to believe that 'he' had struck again...

...

Drip. Drip. Drip.

As they reached Christian Street, one of his friends, David Bowles, exclaimed "Look, police!" Sure enough, under the street light, a policeman strolled round on the beat.

"Thank God!" Diemshutz cried in heartfelt relief, turning the policeman's attention to them.

"And what's going on here, gentlemen? I hope none of you are drunk." He warned them.

"No, sir! We just want to report a murder!"

The policeman- PC Spooner- shrugged. He knew murders were all too common in this district. Bloody sods didn't know where to keep their knives in their kitchens, their guns in their pockets and their grudges in the grave instead of their victims.

"But, sir- it's a woman! A prostitute! Her throat's been hacked open!" Bowles cried in terror. "We think it may be"-

"Dear God! Why didn't you say so?!"" Exclaimed Spooner in horror, as the truth sank in. It made sense, after all. An old acquaintance of the force- Inspector Lestrade-in addition to his own superior, had warned him to be on the guard for any signs of the 'uncatchable killer.'

"I'll come with you chaps right away!" He exclaimed. "Where is the victim?"

"Dutfield's Yard, sir! Right this way!"

...

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Several people- must have been at least ten odd- were gathered round the body, whispering about the possibility of this being _another one._

"But this one doesn't look so bad as before." One man said in confusion. "The last victim had her womb stolen - and the killer also mutilated the wench." He spoke as though he was commenting on a sudden change in the winds, which sickened Diemshutz when it reached his ears.

Spooner elbowed his way past the crown to the corpse and knelt beside the body, before gingerly tilting her chin upwards.

To his surprise and horror, she was still warm. That could only mean one thing... and that was that the killer had _only just been here._

Diemshutz, meanwhile, caught sight of the fatal neck wound again- and it horrified him anew. The throat was emblazoned with a cut over two inches wide. He felt the image burn into his memory- that someone of the same species as he had attacked a poor, unfortunate wretch and slit her throat in such an appalling manner left him keeling.

...

Drip. Drip. Drip.

As Spooner rose, he saw PC Henry Lamb approach him- along with Edward Collins. "Well, heard there's been another one," Said Lamb. "When those chaps there told me about the victim, I got backup and came here as quick as I could."

"I'm glad for it," Replied Spooner. "This crowd's getting bigger than I can handle."

Lamb cracked his knuckles grimly and cleared his throat. "Right, get back, now!" He yelled authoritatively. "If you get blood on your clothes, you're in trouble! Move back!" He waved the crowd of 30 people away and turned to Collins. "Go and fetch Dr. William Blackwell. I know e happens to live at 100 Commercial Street. Hurry, man!"

Collins nodded and dashed off to fetch the doctor.

He then turned to the two men who had summoned him, and ordered Morris Eagle to go on to Leman Street Police Station and say that PC Lamb had sent for backup, as another victim had been murdered in Dutfield's Yard.

Lamb then checked the woman's face by placing a palm carefully against it. It was still warm- albeit not as warm as when Spooner had checked it earlier. A quick examination for a pulse revealed a negative result. She was dead.

But why was only her throat mutilated? Surely, if this was _his_ work, a uterus would be stolen, or a kidney, or some other unspeakable organ theft. And her abdomen would not still be intact.

...

Drip. Drip. Drip.

At 1.16AM, the doctor arrived, and confirmed the victim- a prostitute named Elizabeth Stride- to be deceased.

"Judging from the rigor mortis, I say that Miss Stride was murdered sometime between 20 and 30 minutes ago," Said Doctor Blackwell.

"Well, Mr. Diemshutz, from the looks of things, you may have interrupted the Devil in his crime." Lamb said thoughtfully. "Not at the right time to save her life, perhaps, but enough to save another mutilation. Now, the question is, where is he?"

"If I may be so bold, sir," the doctor interrupted his musings. "I know a man in the medical community, sir- a Doctor Watson- who has a friend whom is a specialist in crime solving. Perhaps he could use his great powers to help catch the Ripper before he kills another victim."

"We don't need some amateur, Doctor," Sneered Lamb, cockily. "We'll catch Ripper ourselves! Besides, I've heard about this Sherlock Holmes fellow- and he sounds like a man smart enough to be the Ripper himself!"

...

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Not an hour after Miss Stride's murder, word rippled round that another prostitute lost her life to 'Leather Apron' in Mitre Square.

This next victim was Catherine Eddowes, and her body had been _horrifically mutilated._ Not only that, but her uterus and a kidney had been taken- like Jack the Ripper's second victim.

When Lamb heard the news, he wondered about two questions which occurred to him, due to him unable to focus on little else but Elizabeth Stride and the damned killer.

The first question was; had Diemshutz's accidental interruption of the devil's work inadvertently condemned Catherine Eddowes to die so painfully and needlessly?

The second question was; would Sherlock Holmes be interested in taking on Jack the Ripper himself?


	9. Missing Comet And a Lost Megalomaniac

Prompt: A case involving a reindeer

From: Hades Lord of the Dead

A/N: A bit of swearing in this from our fave Inspector! And this story just deteriorated into silliness; I did not plan for it to be so random! Hope you all enjoy regardless! 😊 Especially since the last prompt response was rather gruesome.

I do not own Holmes, Lestrade, Holmes, Santa, Mycroft or Sweeny Todd. They belong to whomever they belong to. I do, however, own Anthea. But she is not BBC Anthea 😉

...

Holmes swore as his boots strayed onto a treacherous patch of black ice, sending him flying headfirst into a snowdrift on Fleet Street.

"Are you alright, Holmes?" I asked cautiously, looking down at my friend, who quickly pulled his now red face away from the miniature snowbank and glared me with the deadly glare of a python and a grumpy Siamese cat combined.

"What does it look like, Doctor?" He hissed sarcastically, shaking snow from his muffler before flailing his legs in the air in a futile manner to loosen himself from Winter's hold. "For a medical man, you are not doing a remotely competent assessment of any potential injuries I may have sustained."

"Ignore him, Doctor Watson." Lestrade said perkily, re-joining us with a smug smirk on his face at Holmes' plight. "I say, Holmes, keep those legs moving and we could stick you in with the other reindeer!"

I laughed. "Yes, with those knees, Holmes, you'd pass for a reindeer well enough! Imagine him teaching Blitzen and Rudolph the finer points of tobacco identification!"

"Or how to deduce!" Chortled the inspector, gleefully as we helped Holmes to his feet again. My friend looked very miffed at me as I gave him a friendly smile. His eyes flashed with a brief look of hurt as he strode onwards as though nothing had happened, aquiline nose held in the air as nobly as his French ascendants.

I will confess, dear reader, I was feeling a tad guilty for teasing Holmes about his knobbly knees. This had become a serious matter to his pride when going away to the coast on holiday, and he was very self-conscious about the matter whenever I had to see to anything medical related on his legs.

Judging from his reaction, he would soon forget I had said anything- unless he was angered and hurt I mentioned a point of his embarrassment in front of the good Inspector.

"Don't worry, Watson- Holmes will be back to normal- or as normal as he can be- in a short time." Lestrade said quietly.

I nodded. My friend was one for theatrics, certainly, but I was also concerned I had genuinely hurt his feelings- even if only on a small scale.

...

About 15 minutes later, we did the unthinkable crime against humanity. We committed the one sin we as police and medical professionals had vowed never to commit. We had broken our oath to the preservation of man's sanity.

We had lost Sherlock Holmes.

"Dammit! Where is he?" Lestrade growled, brown, rat like orbs scanning the street. "We can't have lost him already!"

"We have, Lestrade. We can't escape such a travesty to humanity." I replied. I knew when Holmes was on a case, he was a living, breathing danger to the sanity of anyone who crossed his path. Especially if he was peeved about his knees.

"Who the hell puts us through this torture anyway?" Growled Lestrade.

"Well, it certainly isn't someone writing out our lives, Lestrade. Come, we must see if Holmes has found any leads into Cupid's disappearance." I pointed out, running down Fleet Street.

...

Lestrade's turn to slip on the ice came when he accidentally missed a step and his left foot came away from him- sending him crashing into me, sending us both to the snow-covered cobblestones.

"Well, well, well, Mr. Claus, don't my friends look unusual?" a familiar voice asked smugly, and I blushed in embarrassment. "Do you think, perhaps, with the correct leg kinesthetics, that they might be able to join your reindeer in pulling your sleigh round the world?"

"Holmes, what are you doing?" I asked wearily, my cheeks blushing bright red. I shall pretend it is too cold to be pale, and not because Holmes was going to pay us out for teasing him earlier.

"I saved Mr. Santa Claus from paying a wrong visit to that barber down there." Holmes replied, pointing to the shop in question with his walking stick before leaning on it with his left hand; his other resting on Santa Claus' shoulder.

"Mr. Todd?" Asked Lestrade in bemusement. "What the devil has this to do with the missing reindeer?"

"Well, my dear Inspector, young Tobias, one of my Irregulars, also works in that shop, and he fears that man greatly. He is right to distrust the name Sweeny Todd." My friend said darkly. "But whilst I have been saving the life of Mr. Claus, what have you gentlemen been up to, hm?" He asked, an impish look lightening his features.

I would have clubbed him round the head if it were not for the Inspector's presence; though I am certain Lestrade would also feel my sentiments on the subject.

"Well, we managed to achieve ice skating without skates?" Lestrade offered weakly.

"Something I had accomplished before you, gentlemen." Holmes reminded us, his smug smile widening a bit.

"We did it in doubles!" I defended, though I was wondering why I was bothering now. Holmes would probably make some ill-mannered quip about the pair of us being even more incompetent combined than he alone.

"Well, my sincere congratulations, Watson, for your combined efforts to claim first prize in making absolute fools of yourselves in the London public with only ice and poor timing. I knew you always had potential in you for such a feat, Lestrade."

Lestrade growled.

"I say!" Exclaimed Santa. "Is this how all you chaps behave?"

"Well, Holmes and Lestrade like to make fun of each other," I answer dryly. "Holmes is a very devilishly clever fellow, but he has all the humour of some impish creature. I swear he must be"-

"HE'S ADOPTED!" Yelled Mycroft, who had appeared from seemingly nowhere.

"What are you doing here, Mycroft?!" Holmes asked his brother, glaring at him. Mycroft vanished as quickly as he came, yelling 'RAINBOW KITTENS LOVE MINCE PIES!"

"That doesn't normally happen." I said apologetically. "Mycroft's far more reserved than this."

"I see." Santa replied.

"What the deuce is going on?" Asked Lestrade. "This sort of thing wasn't happening earlier!"

"Must be a paradox." I mused. "Or it could be some unknown force writing out our lives as if we were actors. If so, then has our whole lives just been controlled as though we were nothing more than mere puppets."

"If so, then this force is being bloody immature." Lestrade answered darkly, glaring at Holmes who was trying to stifle his laughter.

...

In the end, we found out who took the missing reindeer (it was Comet, for those of you still reading this bizarre twist on events.)

No, Comet didn't steal himself. I meant he was the reindeer who got stolen.

One of Mycroft's mince pie eating, rainbow kittens had taken him.

"Well, Mycroft, your kitten is very...cute," I said, uncertainly.

"I call her Anthea!" Mycroft said happily, feeding her another mince pie. "Someday, Anthea, we will rule all of Great Britain!"

"Should we be worried, Holmes?" I asked my friend, watching as Santa harnessed Comet to his sleigh and drove away, breaking some sort of speed barrier as he did so- no doubt anxious to get away before we drive him to insanity.

Holmes had doubled over in laughter, his eyes watering from mirth. "No, no, my dear Watson. We'll leave him to it. If need be, I have a walking stick. It'd be nice to use some minor violence on my brother without getting a nagging from Mother."

"Holmes!"

"You, Watson, are no fun at all." He sniffed, folding his arms.

Well, I suppose maybe there was one thing worse than losing Sherlock Holmes on a case when he's peeved about his knobbly knees.

It's losing Mycroft Holmes and his entire litter of mince pie eating rainbow kittens inside Buckingham Palace.


	10. An Unconventional Christmas Card

Prompt: A handmade greetings card

From: mrspencil

A/N: I only own Osbert Quinston 😊

...

From her armchair, where she was knitting, Mrs Hudson could see her Christmas cards quite nicely.

One was from her tenants upstairs; another one came from Mycroft Holmes; another card was given to her from her friend Mrs. Turner; one arrived from the coast from her younger sister; a small handful came from her old schoolfriends, and she even got one from the Inspectors of Scotland Yard; recognising her as someone as familiar to them as the good doctor or to the genius consulting detective.

The Irregulars, unable to write, instead made her Christmas tree decorations. Sticks and twine were recycled to make star shapes, and pine cones decorated to look like snowy trees. These now hung with pride on her tree- as far away from candles as possible.

As she finished knitting a new hat for the Irregulars, who needed new winter wear, she heard the doorbell ring. Putting her knitting needles down, she plodded along to the door to answer it. She passed the coat rack, ignoring the false head hanging from it, and opened the door.

On the doorstep stood a gentleman, of about 5'6. He was wearing a long black overcoat, a wonky top hat, and carried a scrimshawed ivory walking stick. In between his long, bushy black-grey beard and his wonky nose, a warm smile of recognition and affection broke out on his face.

"Good afternoon, Martha," he said politely in a gravelly voice, tipping his hat to her courteously.

"Afternoon, Osbert," Replied Mrs. Hudson warmly. "Would you like to come in and have a cup of tea? You look as if you'd freeze to death!"

"That'd be most welcoming, thank you," he replied, and he stepped into the threshold. He eyed the head hanging from the coat rack with a detached interest.

"It's fake," Mrs Hudson explained.

"Hm," Replied Osbert. "I see you have you tenant still?"

"Oh yes. He's still trying my nerves daily." She replied, taking his hat from him to hang.

"As far as Australia?" He asked, with a smirk.

"Oh, Heaven forbid!" She answered, causing him to chuckle.

Osbert Quinston was a queer man. He never shaved his beard until half past two on Sunday mornings, he always carried the same walking stick with him, and resented his surname as he thought he sounded like a little-known cricket team. It was out of this dislike for his family name that he insisted on being called Osbert- and, although blurred by the passage of time, he and the good landlady had somehow begun referring to each other by their first names whenever they were alone in privacy. They understood their personal boundaries, but knew the society they lived in would only condemn it.

On another note, he also had a habit of chasing any mischievous boys up the street who called him 'Whittler'- anyone who made fun of his name was ignored or left alone. A dared utterance of 'Whittler' was rewarded by a half mile chase up the street with him riled-up.

But he was also a very creative man; always scrimshawing ivory and shells, and had the ability to fix shelves and furniture such as sideboards, tables and chairs. He had a penchant for collecting junk to reuse for creating beautiful things, big and small, and he also charged small fees to have him fix furniture that had suffered from a bout of misfortune.

But under his quirks and short fuse, he was in actuality a very kind man; he adored children and animals alike, was respectful and polite to women, and treated every man he met; pauper or prince, as a brother.

But if he caught sight of some miscreant abusing some poor creature; women, young children or animals- even if they were mice or rats- he would fly into a rage and rush in to defend those defenceless against humanity's cruelty. And it was this trait of his that had made him sympathetic to Sherlock Holmes, despite never having met the man.

...

Quinston watched as Mrs. Hudson poured out some tea for them both.

"So, Martha, how have you been since we last talked?" He asked politely.

"I've been keeping well, thank you," Replied she, with the dignity and warmth she possessed so. "I trust you have been doing the same?"

"As well as I can," he answered dismissively. "How is Mr. Holmes treating you?"

"He's been much the same; although he has now found a flatmate to lodge with." She answered with a smile.

"Good God, Martha!" Exclaimed Quinston, nearly spilling his tea, before regaining his composure. "Not that I doubt your patience, but surely Holmes himself is enough to deal with?"

"Osbert, this man- a Doctor Watson by name- is a wonderful man with a saint's patience." She replied. "He is a very kind soul, God bless him, and he does keep Mr. Holmes from getting into trouble."

"Ah," Smiled Quinston. "You, my dear, are the most formidable and compassionate soul I know." He was rewarded with a blush from Mrs. Hudson.

"And I could say the same about you, sir," she replied, causing him to chortle once again.

"Well, I try my best and only end up exercising my worst." He quipped.

Their conversation turned away to politics, such as the Suffragette movement; the olden days in which they reminisced on their memories and exchanged humorous anecdotes and had filled the other in on what had happened since they had last met, their conversation sprinkled with laughter and humorous, sometimes sarcastic, quips.

Hours flew by like minutes, and it was not until the front door banged open violently, sending something sprawling to the floor (from the thud that it made, Mrs. Hudson deduced it was the false head.) that Quinston dared to look at the clock, and gasped.

"Well, I say! I was here longer than I expected!" He exclaimed, rising. "Thank you very much for the hospitality, Martha- most delightful."

"As was the company," She returned, smiling. "It does make a nice change from having a dull, quiet flat when those two are out."

Fishing something out from his coat pocket, Quinston handed her something wrapped in plain brown wrapping paper. It wasn't heavy, but it was unusually thick.

"Your Christmas card, my dear." He explained, smiling warmly. "It's not conventional, but then you do like a slice of the unconventional in life."

"Thank you," She replied graciously.

...

Mr Holmes and Doctor Watson had indeed returned; and Holmes was in a foul mood when the two exited her rooms.

"I cannot believe that Ross escaped again!" the detective fumed to his companion, before storming upstairs.

"See you anon, fair lady," Quinston said, tipping his hat to her again.

"Anon, my good sir," she answered.

Once he had gone home, she turned to the good doctor.

"What's amiss, Doctor Watson?" She asked.

"Holmes is just cross because a cat burglar we were chasing eluded Holmes and Scotland Yard." Watson replied gloomily.

"Well, I shall prepare his favourite meal. I trust you do not object, Doctor Watson?"

"Not at all, Mrs. Hudson. I am in want of some of your fine cooking this evening."

She beamed. "Tell him it shall be ready in 20 minutes." She instructed.

...

Once Watson had gone after his flatmate, she went back into her rooms and carefully opened the brown paper.

Inside was a piece of wood, with a beautiful winged angel, playing a long trumpet carved into it. It had a wooden border around it, and at the bottom was emblazoned were the words ' _Merry Christmas.'_

Touched, she opened it- for it had hinges on the back- and, on noticing the message, she read the inside.

' _Dear Martha,_

 _I wish you a Merry Christmas, and all the best for the New Year. May our friendship remain long, and your life always fulfilled._

 _Yours sincerely, Osbert.'_

He was right about one thing; she did appreciate unconventional things in her life; such as her tenants, and her close friend, Osbert Quinston.


	11. Hurtful Gossip

Prompt: Gossip

From: Kitschgeist

A/N; This is part 1 of 2. Part two will come in a few chapters 😉

...

Rows are deucedly awkward businesses to deal with.

Holmes and I had had an argument the previous evening; the details of which I shall not go into, but they involved hurtful words, oaths and near-strikes.

Such as it goes.

What made it even worse for the both of us was that Lestrade needed 'assistance' on yet another case, and we were both needed; Holmes for his deductions, and I for medical purposes. Thus, the cab ride to the Yard was difficult and terse, with Hopkins and Lestrade accompanying us- thus bearing witness to the strains in our friendship.

...

"Right, Holmes, you're coming with me," Announced Lestrade grimly on our arrival. "I could do with you looking at those wretched files in my office."

"Certainly, Lestrade." Holmes had already read them, of course, but he had no intention of staying with me anymore than I had no intention of staying here with him. So, I too was relieved when my flatmate disappeared with the good inspector behind an oak door.

I was not one for grudges, however, and I knew once my bad mood had dissipated, I would forgive my friend for his churlish behaviour.

"Alright, Watson?"

I jumped as Inspector Small, with whom I was acquainted from Holmes' three- year hiatus, stopped beside me.

"Yes, thank you, Inspector." I answered, dryly. "I just had a quarrel with Holmes, that's all. I'll be fine once we've a discussion."

"I see." Small sounded sympathetic. "Well, I do hope you and Mr. Holmes do make up again."

"Thank you," I replied, managing a smile. He gave me a quicksilver grin in return before hurrying off again.

I slumped in my chair- only to wince as I felt my shoulder wound ache. Damnation- I forgot my wound objected to rows, and now it hurt like the devil himself was branding it with a red-hot poker.

I sighed, and gladly accepted an offer of some coffee from Hopkins, who was also making some coffee for himself, Lestrade and another colleague.

...

I was sipping away inconsolably at my lukewarm coffee when I saw Hopkins hover back to me like a planet in orbit. When I looked closer, I noticed his face looked very pale, and I was concerned for his health.

"Is something wrong, Hopkins?" I asked.

"Oh- nothing's wrong, Watson," He replied- too quickly for my liking. I sighed and patted a chair next to mine.

"Sit, and we'll talk." I said, as kindly as I could.

Sheepish and ashamed at being caught out on his lie, he shuffled over to me and sat down, his shoulders tense and knees quaking. I wondered what had bothered the poor fellow so.

"Now, what's wrong, lad?" I asked him concernedly. "Are you ill?"

"No, no, nothing like that, Watson." He replied, quietly, looking at his interlocked hands in his lap. "But I am afraid to tell you, sir. I..." he looked over his shoulder fearfully. "I do not wish to lose your confidence or your friendship if I tell you..."

"Hopkins, clearly something is wrong. You can tell me," I replied firmly, but gently. At that, he relaxed slightly, and he finally looked at me directly in the eye before taking a deep breath.

"Well, sir, I... I was just in the other room, and I heard Inspector Small talking..." he trailed off, tensing as though sensing someone behind him; prompting me to take his hand in my own and gave it a comforting squeeze. Hopkins was a brave Inspector, but he was terrified of Small?

He seemed to be a respectable sort...

My young friend gave a grateful smile for my attempt at comfort before continuing. "I overheard Inspector Small telling a group of my colleagues that you were planning to move out of Baker Street after your argument with Mr. Holmes." He said quietly. "I thought it sounded off, and I thought I should tell you... but I didn't know how to say it without making you feel awful."

I was silent. Small had said I was moving from Baker Street? How dare he! I had no intention of doing such a thing! Not only that, but our row, although particularly rough, had not destroyed our bonds of friendship permanently!

Riled, I leapt from my seat with a low growl.

"Doctor, please!" Hopkins gasped in shock and horror at my sudden reaction.

"Well, I can't just let him tell deuced lies about me and Holmes!" I spluttered indignantly. Holmes would be hurt if he heard this false gossip, and I had no intention of allowing my best friend to endure this without a fight.

And yet, I had no wish to agitate poor Hopkins further. "I shall go and have a word with Small," I said finally, trying to keep my temper under control at the situation, although the bull pup was astir. "I do appreciate you telling me, Hopkins."

He nodded minutely. "I know you wouldn't do that to Mr. Holmes. I didn't feel right saying so, but I felt awful at the idea of leaving you to find out for yourself. But please be careful, Doctor Watson- Small is not a man to be crossed."

I nodded slowly. But I was only half listening to my friend's warning; my mind was more occupied on how to confront Small...


	12. Wrapping Paper?

Prompt: Wrapping Paper

From: cjnwriter

...

"Let me guess, Watson, you got me a new violin case."

"How the deuce did you"-

"Watson, a child could have deduced it. That was a waste of wrapping paper."

"Oh, really, Holmes!"

...

I watched nervously from the mouse hole as a lean brown shape darted out across the rug, diving deftly into well-known nooks and crannies to avoid detection. From beneath Holmes' armchair, I watched his glimmering green eyes target his prey with the swiftness of our most feared enemy the cat.

I prayed my dear friend would hurry up and finish his mission without getting himself caught. I had no desire to spend this Christmas with memories of his haunting screams whilst being drowned in Mrs Hudson's cleaning bucket.

...

"Nevertheless, my dear Watson, it is a very opulent case for my violin. I do appreciate the taste and practicality of your gift, if not its presentation."

"I'm glad of that, Holmes. You do try my nerves sometimes. Would you care for a glass of brandy?"

"Yes, dear doctor, if you would be so kind."

...

I felt dread build up inside me in tune to the glass clinking and blood running cold akin to pouring brandy. Where is he? I wondered, brown eyes darting centre, left and right. But no sign of the detective was to be found.

It was a pity Toby was not here to help us. He was not at 221B today, for their human inspector- Lestrade, I believe his name was- had borrowed him for a case, on the human detective's recommendation. Blast the timing! If Toby was here, Basil would have no need of me to keep watch for unexpected movements.

Not that he doubted his sharp reflexes and quick thinking under pressure; but he insisted I keep a second watch out for him. Had he not left me here, I would have been convinced he brought solely to give him company.

"The fun is over, my dear Dawson." A warm breath trickled into my ear unexpectedly.

I jumped out of my fur and nearly _\- nearly-_ punched him out of the worry and stress I had had of keeping watch for any signs of fatal danger from the mousehole. Instead, I let all the tension flow from my body faster than an Indian river, and I felt my knees go weak at the fact he had not died from sheer stupidity.

"Come, man!" He ordered, helping me into the tunnel, on seeing my state.

...

Between this and sitting down at my chair by the fire was a blur, but after Basil poured out and thrust a brandy at me, for my shock, I felt my mind begin to clear, although my heart was still pounding, and I dared not stand just yet.

"Dawson, I shall never understand your limits. You always, always want to help me in such dangerous missions, even for pleasure's sake." He gave me an affectionate smile, looking unusually embarrassed. His ears drooped, and his shoulders deflated, as though wanting to shrink into himself or disappear altogether.

My heart went out to the fellow; his aloof nature, his pragmatic ways, and his genius had rendered him to be a mouse without emotion- so much so that any doubt, uncertainty or embarrassment made him look more like a long-limbed mouse child than the kingdom's greatest detective.

"Well, I am always happy to be of service, my dear boy," I told him, sincerely. "But it is very unusual to go about building a museum of Sherlock Holmes in the broom cupboard. Now why the deuce did you need up there this time?"

"This, Dawson, this!" Basil held his prize aloft, and I felt bemusement on seeing it. In his paw, was something brown, irregularly shaped and plain, with nothing of interest to note, as far as I could observe.

"It is merely a piece of wrapping paper." I said, bluntly.

"Not _merely_ a piece of wrapping paper, Dawson- it is one that he himself ripped open!" Basil said in delight, clapping his paws like an eager mouse child on Christmas morning; clearly too excited to care that I had once again just stated the obvious.

"You sound like a minister going on about finding some holy relic." I told him with a smirk. However, on seeing his face fall into a mixture of hurt and irritation nearing a huff, I decided to be tactful, lest I sparked an unwarranted row.

"But, it is very, um, admirable how you have shown such dedication and passion to preserving his memory for the mice of future generations." I told him kindly, and he brightened at once.

"I am glad you share my opinion, Dawson." He said. "I hope this will not make you think any less of me, with my schoolboy- like admiration of the fellow. It just won't do."

"I don't think any less of you, old chap," I answered affably. He nodded with satisfaction, and then descended into one of his customary silences.

And indeed, I think no less of my dearest friend than I did when we first met during the Flaversham affair over 3 years ago. He will always be a source of comfort, inspiration, and most importantly, awe for as long as our friendship endures.

Although I do question his sanity considering how much he went through- how much he risked- for a piece of plain brown wrapping paper that Holmes had ripped open to stick into a broom cupboard converted into a self-curated museum on a man we could never meet face to face, on pain of death.


	13. Candlelit Revelations

Prompt: A candlelit meeting

From: mrspencil

A/N: This and another prompt down the line will have GMD in it one way or another. I love that movie! And I love the idea of Basil interacting with our favourite (human) sleuth! I also reference my fanfic, The Case of the Emerald Puppet Mouse in this fic. Call it shameless self-promotion. 😉

...

Clambering out of my concealed tunnel, I allow an inhalation of fresh, dust free air before adjusting my muffler and glancing round.

It is exactly the same as the countless times I had been here in his home.

Toby lies asleep by the hearth, containing only a dead fire. Papers and books loom out of the darkness like shadowy, miniature London Towers. The air around me feels as though I am walking in a cemetery.

But I am not afraid. It is merely cold and dark.

I am not here for anything in particular. I merely suffer from insomnia following the case of the Emerald Puppet Mouse, but I am reluctant to admit both this, and the cause behind it, to Dawson. As much as I trust the good doctor, I am afraid- afraid of being seen as weak, as someone who is meant to control their sentiment, but cannot.

I fear I would break down, and even when cases were sparse, I tossed and turned under my covers; heard nasty sniggers coming from the darkest corners of the room-

-And the screams of the doctor who has come to mean so much to me, and the one I almost lost due to my callous behaviour. True, I warned him of the truth, and he ignored me; but the subsequent argument as a result nearly cost me my conscience and my friend's life.

I shiver, and pull my coat close. How could I ever hope to sleep, ever hope to allow one night to pass without regret, fears and the alternate possibilities?

I long to confide in someone unjudging, someone who understood what it felt to nearly lose one's friends, and how to self-forgive.

Dawson had long forgiven me, God bless his soul. But I have not forgiven myself in the slightest.

...

The brush of taciturn, unforgiving oak mark my palms, and I begin to climb up the table leg of his chemistry table, my heart feeling more and more like stone as I clamber up that wooden mountain.

The top, however, is where I realised I had made a rare but grave mistake.

...

On the table, burns a single candle, half melted. Sitting in the stool nearby, paper in one hand, a test tube of silver oxide in the other is _him_.

In an instant, he sees me staring at him, and I feel my heart freeze in my chest.

"Do not worry about me, little fellow," he says. "I do not harm mice, or any living creatures, for profit or entertainment."

I know this, but all the same, I feel myself relax. As daring as I could, I shuffle closer to the man I admired.

"Hum! I see you are a bold creature!" He remarks, quietly, giving me a curious gaze. For a moment, ice-grey eyes lock with emerald green, and I feel a peculiar sensation from the top of my ears to my tail-tip.

I keep walking closer, and closer to him, knowing at every step could lead me to my grave, but I hardly care. My burden has been heavy for a month and a half, and if my life ended tonight, at least I won't have to dwell on it for long.

"What brings you here at this hour, little friend?" He queries. I look at him for a moment, before I begin to explain my dilemma. But I see he only looks confused- he must not understand what I am talking about.

Curses! I would have better luck talking to a princess from a fairy tale than my own idol!

In my frustration, I accidentally knock over a bottle of ink. Struck with an idea, I grab a nearby dropper and, with an apologetic glance to my human companion, I dip it into the newly formed lake of ink and write out a short message on some paper nearby.

It ran thus:

' _Mr. Holmes._

 _I am a detective, much like you, and I recently solved a case with my best friend and partner, Doctor David Q. Dawson. It was a tough case, and... I tried to warn him of a particularly dangerous part of the case, but he didn't listen, and I acted like a cad towards him. I nearly lost him during the case, and I feel that, somehow, if I had not been so horrible, I would not have come close to losing my dearest friend. What could have been haunts my sleep, and renders me unable to rest. There is naught I can do to change the past, but I cannot let go of it, for fear of losing my most faithful companion._

 _Basil'_

 _..._

I heave a sigh as I finish writing the note; for I had written more than I had cared to, and a mouse writing legibly enough for a human to comprehend was exhaustive on the body's physical resources. I try not to reveal this to him, but I suspect he has deduced it already; and he appears to be more surprised at my plight than at the fact that I am a literate mouse.

"What did you want to keep your friend from?" he asks me.

'From falling in love with the wrong woman, and I failed.' I write in response. 'All I did was made him angry and I refused to listen.'

"We all make mistakes which can interfere with friendships." He replies. "The important thing is that you are not to blame for your actions. You have played a part in his unwise decision, but you cannot pin blame on him or you. All you can do is acknowledge your responsibility in this affair and allow yourself to have been wrong, and a chance to start anew." He tells me.

That is the wisest advice I have heard from a human; especially one I greatly admire. I smile gratefully, and tip my deerstalker to him in gratitude.

I shall talk with Dawson and bury these ghosts of mine for once and for all.

...

After a short note of my sincere thanks and farewell to my companion he merely nods, and even allows me to ride in his hand back to the mouse hole. I am surprised when he places me in front of the correct hole without any prompting from me; but he merely winks and bids me goodnight.

Doing likewise, I enter the hole and look down the tunnel, eager to talk to my friend and allow us to lay this guilt to rest permanently.


	14. Watson Loses Something of Importance

Prompt: Watson's temper gets him into trouble

From: Hades Lord of the Dead

A/N: Part 2 – continues from my 11th prompt response

...

Once I finished my coffee, I went to find Small and confront him about the rumours he was spreading. On the way, I met Gregson, another friendly rival to Lestrade and Holmes, talking to Inspector Bradstreet over weak tea.

"Hullo, Watson!" He exclaimed on seeing me approach. "I thought you might be with Holmes!"

"I have something important to deal with," I informed him, with an involuntary growl. "One of your colleagues is spreading gossip about me moving out of Baker Street because of my argument with Holmes!"

"It wouldn't happen to be Small, would it?" Bradstreet asked cautiously. At my surprised nod, he added "he's been spreading rumours for a long time."

"Yeah," Agreed Gregson. "He's not a very popular fellow with us or Lestrade. Why, he only said last week that Hopkins had got his fiancée pregnant out of wedlock."

"The devil!" I exclaimed angrily.

"We know Hopkins is a good lad; but he's not keen on working with Small after that incident. Lestrade tried to have him fired for being a bully and a liar, but he's pretty chummy with the Superintendent."

I was very certain these two Inspectors would have to hold me back should I encounter that Small again- both Holmes and Hopkins being targeted within two weeks?! No wonder poor Hopkins was so nervous when I revealed my intentions to teach him a lesson.

Well, if he cannot be fired so easily, he must be stopped in his tracks.

...

Fortunately, I had not long to wait until I met Small again. Unfortunately, I had no idea that this meeting would end in disaster.

But I shall not reveal my woe until I recount events properly.

Small had been laughing about something with a couple of policemen who were also not too friendly with the circle Holmes and I kept with. These men were more dishonest and had no conscience when it came to respecting their fellow men.

As I got closer, I realised I had no plan on how to actually talk to Small.

"...but seriously, gentlemen. DO you think he's sincere?" Small asked.

I froze, trying my best to look inconspicuous, so I could work out the moist tactical plan.

"How could anyone hope to maintain a friendship with a man who only cares about solving crimes and gets depressed when people are _not_ endangered by the scum of the Earth? _And_ then he ditches his friends and messes with their minds, making them think he's dead, whilst he goes gallivanting round the world! This man clearly doesn't understand the meaning of friendship, am I right?"

I felt blood rush to my face in anger at the unkind words spewing from Small's mouth as the two constables doubled over in laughter. Holmes may not provide the same companionship and affection as most men would for their friends, but I accepted and appreciated Holmes' friendship.

And he had not 'died' to mess with my mind! He had died to protect me and all endangered by Moriarty's men! And he came back as soon as he had been able!

My fingers slowly curled into fists. The tips dug precariously into my palms. My shoulders tensed. My knees bent.

The bull pup was well and truly unleashed.

Breaking into a run, the last thing I remember before it happened was me bellowing an Afghan cry remembered from my time in the service, elbowing the two constables as I did so, my arm stretching out for Small...

...

"What the bloody hell were you thinking?!" Lestrade yelled at me, about twenty minutes after the incident had unfolded. Small gave me a reproachful glare, but I ignored him. Holmes also gave me an icy look from over Lestrade's shoulder.

"I'm sorry, Lestrade, I honestly am. I was not meant to perform such violence." I explained weakly, realising now that losing my temper could get me arrested- or banned from the Yard.

"A partner is useless to me behind bars, Doctor." Holmes added acidly, and I felt stung. Holmes had sent me to prison undercover- innocent, I can assure you- at least once. "I cannot believe you assaulted an Inspector, Watson. This puts me in a difficult position."

I was trying not to snap again- I was still full of rage and adrenaline from the attack on Small. I will readily admit that I knew I was in the wrong, but it had given me no small satisfaction to hear his nose crack on contact.

"Be grateful that I'm only banning you from the Yard temporarily, Watson!" Lestrade growled, his rat-like features twisted into a glare. "Mrs. Hudson will have a fit if she hears about your appalling behaviour." He added.

I knew- and I was ashamed. At least my Mary wouldn't hear about it tonight. But I suspect she would be happy if she had been watching me from the Heavens.

But I had a feeling it would be a while before Holmes forgave me for getting him into such a difficult position with the Yard, for he had not wanted to go without me, and I could not go in the Yard until Lestrade gave me the all clear.

I was just lucky I had avoided jail.

But, in all honesty, I wish I was there now. Dealing with Small gloating over my fate was better than dealing with Holmes at home after everything that had transpired within the past two days.


	15. First Meeting

Prompt: Who do you think you are?

From: Kitschgeist

A/N: Just a little tale on how I think Wiggins and Holmes meet (0_0)

...

I slipped my pocket watch back into my breast pocket, and gazed along Grosvenor Square with my ever-keen eyes.

It was becoming tedious that the he criminal classes had been most unengaging for over a month, and I long for a case; long to hear an interesting case from Lestrade; anything to distract me from my boredom!

Mrs Hudson chased me out of 221B some hour or two ago for some 'fresh air' as she phrased it; but I suspect I may have to come back to it as well, if I am unlucky.

...

I look at the trees growing in the square, and quietly recite their Latin names to myself, allowing myself to relax from an alert state ever so slightly.

Until someone screams from the opposite side of the square.

It sounds like a fifty year old extremely wealthy wife of a businessman who had lost her newly purchased diamond and pearl necklace and it had been stolen from her by a swift thief.

I yawn. It is rather tiresome dealing with such boring trivialities, and is why I must leave at once, lest she or her husband, whom has served in the Royal Navy judging by his limp and haircut, see me and recognise me.

But I had scarcely gone seven steps away from the couple's direction when I feel something; or someone, run right into my legs, sending me sprawling to the ground.

A boy who looks no younger than ten and no older than fifteen lies, dazed and dizzy, nearby- holding the necklace in one hand, his head in the other.

"Are you...alright?" I ask reluctantly.

"I think I am, gov," he answers in poor English, shaking his head before climbing up to his feet.

"Now, what do you think you're doing?" I ask him sternly, putting my hands on my hips and giving the street Arab a glare, at which he shuffles his feet awkwardly. "Why are you running?" I know the answer, of course. He clearly stole the necklace.

"What's it to ya, gov?" The boy asks me, boldly. Tempted as I am to box his ears for his impudence, I detain my fury and instead continue to glare at him. My eyes pick out the miniscule details that tell me everything I need to know about this boy.

"I know for a fact that you are nearly thirteen years of age, you are a pickpocket, have no employment or home and love animals." I tell him wryly.

The boy gapes at me for a long moment, unable to comprehend what I had said to him.

"Who do you think you are?" He asks me, full of anger. "You've been spying on me!"

"I assure you, my boy, I have never laid eyes on you until now." I reply calmly, inwardly smug I had caught him off guard. "The grubby, forlorn state of your clothes suggested to me a lack of a home, and the fact that your clothes are too small show you cannot afford new clothes. These clothes were designed for someone about ten years of age. You also have hairs around your ankles, which indicate a love of animals- small dogs or cats, most likely. Correct?"

The boy nods, too gobsmacked to speak for a moment or two.

"How...how did you know?" he asks at last, once he finds the breath to talk again.

"I did not. I merely observed, and deduced." I tell him. "Now, what might your name be, my lad?"

"Wiggins, sir." He answers. "William Wiggins. But I just go by Wiggins."

"Well, Wiggins," I continue. "I am looking for a small group of children to be part of an unofficial force to help me seek information otherwise unobtainable to myself or my acquaintances at Scotland Yard. I think, with the right training and some food, you would make an excellent member. How does that sound to you?"

He shrugs. "I dunno, sir. Sounds real temptin', but I ain't got the time for that. Not when I'm trying to survive on what little I got, sir."

Hum- that did not occur to me. I come up with an idea, however, to resolve both our problems.

"Well, then, suppose I pay you and your fellow Irregulars a shilling a day in service? Would that persuade you to give up pickpocketing and work for me?" I offer.

Wiggins perks up at the idea. "So, I get money working for ya?" he asks in disbelief.

"For food, yes. And I will also cover other expenses. And if any of you boys provide me with a vital clue for a case, I will throw in an extra guinea." I promise. It seems like a little motivational 'perk' if you will.

His eyes widen at this promise, making me realise that that was likely more money than he had ever seen in his years. "Well, it does sound more ideal than not knowing when money for my next meal will come from," He says.

"So, we have a bargain?"

"Sure, Mr... oh, but I don't know your name, sir."

I hold out my hand to him as a gesture of conciliation. "My name is Sherlock Holmes." I say with a smile.


	16. Marshmallow Delight

Prompt: Marshmallows

From: Wordwielder

A/N: I did some research on marshmallows before writing this prompt, and they were invented by the French in the 1800s, so...enjoy! This might not be historically accurate

I own Cassiopeia and Pollux. (From Mrs. Hudson's Xmas Collection, 2016) I also own Mr. Henry Angel.

...

17 year old Pollux Holmes had a bad habit of letting time fly by without his notice.

His mother had warned him to be careful, and head home before dark, as had his elder brother, Siger. But he had disregarded those warnings, and now he was stranded out in London's streets in a blizzard, in the dark.

Worse, he had his beloved Cassiopeia out with him, and she was supposed to have been home hours ago, as threatened by her father.

He cursed as he tried to fish out his compass; but only succeeded in dropping it onto the street with a 'crack!'

Cassiopeia strained her eyes against the blizzard as he bent down to retrieve what was left of it. "Over there, Pollux!" She exclaimed, pointing ahead. "There's a light on in that shop down there! We could ask the owner if we can shelter from the storm for a while!"

"Very well, Cass!" He replied in defeat, getting to his feet, wincing as his legs stiffened under him. He didn't like the idea of stopping when it was already so dark, but he knew seeking shelter from the storm was the sensible thing to do until they could get home again.

Cassiopeia had grabbed his hand and was running down the street as fast as her boots would carry her. Her skirts whirled and whipped against her ankles, getting underfoot, causing multiple trips and near misses with the ground.

But she kept going, determined to get in and out from the blizzard swirling round them.

Pollux had to admire her feisty nature and her determination to keep marching on, no matter how dire the situation.

...

The owner of the shop was an older man named Mr. Angel. He had been about to go home for the night, but then, his bespectacled eyes saw two figures running out of the darkness towards him. At first, he tensed, fearing that the shadows would morph into muggers and rob him blind of his money.

But as they got closer, he swore he heard a woman's voice. Confused, he opened his eyes; under the barely seen street lamp stood a handsome muscular man with a dark-blonde moustache the size of his small finger, and hair the same colour swept under a top hat. His dark blue suit had mud round the trouser cuffs, and snowflakes and wet patches patterned the fabric. His nose had a very distinctive aquiline shape.

His companion was a beautiful dark haired lady, with pale skin, hair running down to her shoulders, a dark green dress emphasising her paleness and black boots. Like her companion, she was also somewhat muddy.

"Sir, please, we're lost and we cannot get home in this storm. Mightn't we take shelter in your shop?" She asked politely but desperately.

Mr. Angel knew he ought to be getting home, but he was not altogether keen to see his wife; she had never admired his career decision and they argued a lot.

Plus, he was a kind man, and these young people did need somewhere to stay, lest they perish in the cold. And they seemed like nice young people as well...

"Very well, you ca stay," he announced, fishing out the key. "I have some work to finish up in the shop, anyway, so you can stay here until the storm passes."

"Thank you gratefully," Said the man. "I'm Pollux Holmes, by the way, and this is my love, Cassiopeia Plum."

"Who might you be, good sir?" Cassiopeia asked curiously.

"Mr. Henry Angel, my dear." He replied nervously, unlocking the door and shoving it open, before waving his unexpected guests inside. "Do come in and warm yourselves."

...

"We didn't, did we...?" Pollux asked Cassiopeia, as the two huddled in blankets provided by Mr. Angel in front of a small fire. They listened to the winds howling and whistling round the small brick building keeping them warm and safe.

"We did!" Her eyes were wide open. "We're in a sweet shop!" She beamed broadly.

"Yes- Angel's Delights is just a small business I own, but I'm very proud of it," Mr. Angel told them, pushing his spectacles up his nose.

"You know, Po, I don't think I've ever been here," Mused Cassiopeia thoughtfully.

"Nor have I, Cass," Added Pollux.

Mr. Angel handed them some piping hot tea. "Here you are." He said, kindly.

"Thank you," They said together, allowing the tea to warm their frozen fingers. Mr. Angel hadn't known them long, but he liked them; they were an unconventional couple in love, despite their differences.

Mr. Angel hesitated, wondering whether to ask why they were out so late. He felt his hand play with his shirt sleeve again.

"So, what were you two doing out on a night like this?" He asked at last, wondering if he had spoken out of turn.

"We- well, I- lost track of time when we were out walking, old chap." Pollux replied sheepishly. "I was supposed to have taken Cassiopeia home hours ago, but I forgot the time and she and I ended up caught in the blizzard. So she suggested we seek shelter here."

"Yes, and we're frightfully sorry if we're keeping you from your wife." Cassiopeia added. "I...we...well, one of us should have asked if you had to get home so urgently. How selfish of us!"

"No, no, it is quite alright," Replied Mr. Angel. "I am not at all keen to get home tonight."

"How?" Pollux asked.

"I don't get on with my wife very much," Mr Angel mumbled, ashamed. "I won't go into any details, but I am glad at putting off my departure for a little while longer."

"You poor man." Cassiopeia murmured.

"But don't worry about me," the shy shopkeeper added, and he had a sudden thought. "Here," he said, and reached for a jar of some fluffy white clumps. "Would you care to have some of my marshmallows?" He offered, unscrewing the jar lid.

"What are they?" Asked Cassiopeia curiously.

"We've not had them before." Pollux explained to the older man.

"Ah!" Mr Angel exclaimed in sudden glee. "Then, please, as my humble guests, do try some!" He offered the jar to them. "They are very sweet." He added with a wink.

Cassiopeia's eyes flashed with the same determined fire she so often displayed whenever she was in a feisty or challenged mood, and a delicate, gloved hand dove straight into the jar, plucking out two marshmallows. She popped one into her mouth, and began to chew...

...and the two men swore she made a noise resembling a cat in comfy contentment at the new sensation. Her eyes were suddenly overcome with a dreamy look, and her chewing begun to slow down, as though savouring the strange confection. She seemed almost mournful when she finally swallowed it.

With the same deftness she had demonstrated before, she shoved the other marshmallow at Pollux.

"Eat it, or else," She threatened with a quirky smile. Pollux smirked, and obeyed. His eyes widened at the sweetness exploded in his mouth. It felt like he was eating a piece of cloud.

"Mmm... this is good." He said in delight.

"Good? I feel like I just ate something from Heaven!" She exclaimed.

"SO, you like them, then?" Mr. Angel asked.

"Pollux, should we get married, I would love a cake made of marshmallows."

Mr. Angel chuckled at the lady's stubbornness. "Well, I might be able to try something of the sort." He promised. "When he proposes to you, my dear, let me know and I'll get started."

"Thank you Mr. Angel." Cassiopeia smiled.

...

At last, the storm cleared, and Mr. Angel watched them leave.

"Goodbye, Mr. Angel! Thank you for your kind hospitality!" Pollux called.

"Yes- and thank you for the marshmallows!" Cassiopeia added. "It would be a grand thing to look forward to when I get pregnant!"

"Darling! You can't go around saying that in public!"

"Why not? Besides, craving marshmallows for nine months sounds like a dream..." she added dreamily.

"Wait until you live on them for nine months." Pollux grumbled. But he couldn't stay mad for long. She was fiery, feisty and yet sweet and tender at the same time. That was why he loved her.

Mr. Angel was torn between feeling some justified sense of scandal and laughing at the strange couple who had stormed into his life.

Ever since, they came into Mr. Angel's shop often, and tried many of his wares- but marshmallows was a firm, lifelong favourite.

And Mr. Angel became a lifelong friend to the couple, even after they got married two years after their first encounter with Angel's Delights.


	17. Axis of Evil

Prompt: Is astronomy evil?

From: I'm Nova

A/N: This is historically inaccurate, as I'm using the astronomical 'Axis of Evil' theory. I'm going to pretend Moriarty found it first, somehow. But Eduardo Rozo was the one who discovered it in real life, for those of you wondering.

Disclaimer: Moriarty does not belong to me.

...

Beauty is a double edged sword.

Like how a beautiful woman once blackmailed the King of Bohemia for security, and another beautiful woman murdered three helpless children for their insurance, for instance. They look charming and are ensnaring; but once you fall, you're trapped.

I am not such a man as to fall for the charms of guileless women. Neither is my opponent, Holmes.

Stars, on the other hand, I have indeed developed an interest in, a passion, even. They are beauteous orbs burning in the night sky, but this is not why I am interested in them. I am interested in them as they present a chance for curiosity, an interest in things beyond the Earth; a passion for the unexplained.

But just as it has created knowledge, the cosmos have also created questions that Man cannot answer.

Such as why on Earth anything in it is difficult to measure.

With their limited knowledge and tools, many astronomers tried to work out on Earth that anything in the cosmos seemed to rely on what is being used for weighing them. All their results from different forms of measurements proved to be variating on a huge scale.

I have expounded on the problem at hand; and after many a thought, and half as much experimenting, concluded that there is a fault in which only two measurements could be relied on, and a third could not, as though the universe was attempting to confound us.

They named my proposition the 'Axis of Evil' for they claim ignorance to be a bigger sin than the seven sins, and they do not think it right the universe should snub the 'greatest' astronomers.

How close to the truth of my real nature these men are...and may they never know it.


	18. Gift for a Genius

Prompt: Moran needs a gift for Moriarty

From: I'm Nova

Contains Morian ;) This is for I'm Nova, who has gotten me hooked on this pairing. Thank you so much! :D

This _may or may not_ be referencing the Sherlock episode 'The Great Game' (Okay, it is!) Enjoy!

...

Moran was eager to find his boss a gift. But what could he get him? He wondered.

Clearly, he wanted the detective dead- or maybe wanted him brought here to torture. But Holmes was almost equal in brains to the Professor himself, so catching him would be extremely difficult. As would trying to catch Holmes' pet doctor.

So, he needed to find something else his lover would like.

Well, he was unrivalled in the mathematical world, but Moran had no desire to even venture there; Moriarty had expressed frustration that the assassin could not even comprehend Pythagoras, _'one of the most simplistic mathematics formulas there were, you nimrod!'_

What else? He is a talented astronomer, a respected and feared criminal emperor, a man capable of destroying his enemies' reputations with merely one uttered remark of wounded pride, and is as famed as he is unknown.

But try as he might, he couldn't think of a perfect gift straight off the top of his head.

He growled. Why are male lovers so difficult to please?

...

The next day, Moriarty was in a sulky mood. He was surly and boorish, in comparison to his usual more refined mannerisms, causing Moran no small deal of concern.

"Is something the matter, boss?" He asked cautiously.

"Yes, Moran- I am completely and utterly bored!" Moriarty bellowed, banging his fist on the arm of his chair.

Moran rubbed his temple in frustration. What could help Moriarty feel better? The gift dilemma still weighed on his mind. And not too lightly, either.

He bit his lip in deep thought before fishing out his pocket watch to look at the time, merely so he could avoid looking at the boss's stony face a little while longer.

And then, he had an idea. It was a bit risky, but ah, what the hell? He took this job for the thrill of taking risks.

"Hey, boss, I've an idea on how to relieve your boredom." He offered. Moriarty looked up at him.

"This better be worth my time, Moran." He growled. "Or else."

Moran flashed his most charming smile. "I was thinking," he began. "about how we could break the meddlesome detective... with time itself."

The professor gave him a look. Moran knew that his love was either interested, or was going to threaten him.

He chose to carry on, anyway.

"How about we target a few helpless victims and threaten them with their lives, unless Holmes has the courtesy to take on our little game?

Moriarty continued to look at him for two minutes- which felt more like an hour- until at last, an icy, vehement smile broke out on his face.

"Well, well, Moran. It needs a bit of detail put into it, but I like the way you think." He purred. He rose, and made his over to Moriarty before caressing the assassin's neck tenderly. "We will work on the plan later, darling. But first, bedroom." He ordered.

Moran scooped the professor up in his arms, pleased to have done something right. "With pleasure...Master," He breathed into Moriarty's ear.


	19. Toy Shop Robbery

Prompt: Chaos in a toy shop

From: mrspencil

...

What a frightfully unusual case!

Holmes and I were investigating a robbery at Mr. Brook's toyshop, about at least forty minutes away from Baker Street.

The theft itself would not have been of interest to my friend- had it not been for the very queer fact that gears from clockwork toys were missing and shadowy fingers of the night had stripped some unsuspecting soldier dolls when the shop was closed.

Although I had merely laughed in amusement, Holmes had become particularly solemn and announced that he would like to take a closer look at the case. After all, not a great deal of interesting crimes were happening in London at the moment, and Holmes felt that this was one of the queerest things he had ever encountered, save for perhaps the Giant Rat of Sumatra, or the Red Headed League.

Holmes, of course, asked if I could assist him, and I conceded, having no patients to see that morning.

...

"Hum! Whoever conducted this robbery must be a very experienced criminal indeed, my dear Watson." Holmes confided to me, as he ran his magnifying lens along the shelves where those gearless toys perched, looking very forlorn now they could not move.

"Yes, but why does a criminal need toy uniforms and gears?" I asked Holmes, who merely shrugged.

"That is the question we must answer to solve this case. Alas, old man, I cannot comprehend why anyone would need such trifling items!" He said angrily, slamming his hand on the shelf in frustration.

I left him to investigate the shelves, and went to look out of the window. There was no way that the criminal had picked the lock- Holmes had quickly disproved that theory with his lens and some simple observations. The windows were also untouched.

I pondered the whole case as I stared out onto the foggy streets of London. It was nearing her Majesty's Diamond Jubilee, and many people were milling about, sorting out what to wear for the celebrations.

I cast my eyes down briefly...and caught sight of a small hole, no bigger than a pinprick, on the window. Frowning in bemusement, I crouched as best as I could, and slotted my small finger through it... and nothing happened.

Feeling disappointed, I was about to withdraw it again when I realised it had become stuck. Much to my horror, it refused to budge, no matter how much I coaxed or strained it. After about what felt like 5-10 minutes of fighting a losing battle with the window pane, I called Holmes.

"I say, Holmes"-

"Not now, Watson! I'm investigating a mess that, according to Mr. Brooks, hadn't been here last night!" Holmes called back.

Well, so much for that, then. I was going to have to continue to fight my way out.

I continued to try and free my finger...and gasped as I stumbled and nearly fell to my feet. The circular glass pane I was stuck in had opened like a little door! How was this possible? I wondered. I knew Holmes might appreciate my discovery...if only I could get my finger out of it.


	20. Road Safety

Prompt: a walk in the snow

From: mrspencil

...

"Isn't it nice to get out of the flat for a change, Holmes?" I ask my esteemed friend and flatmate, Sherlock Holmes.

"Bah!" He snorts in reply. "What is 'nice' about getting crystallised water into your shoes and socks, all whilst running the risk of getting chills? I will never understand your perception of entertainment, Doctor."

"And I will never understand your feelings against it." I retort, tugging gently on the blue lead restraining Toby from running away from us, as he is so prone to doing for no good reason.

We are walking down Half Moon Street in an attempt to get some fresh air and a bit of exercise for Toby, due to inactivity on behalf of the criminal classes. Both news to which Holmes had fallen into a sulk about.

"We're not going to be out for long, Holmes. We're just going to walk Toby to keep him from gnawing on the tree for a few hours." I remind him.

"I did not agree to any of this." He says churlishly.

"Well, I never agree with whatever God forsaken hours you wake me up at for cases, drugging me with your foul concoctions, or your violin playing at three in the morning, so don't you start on me!" I answer, smirking in triumph as Holmes falls into silence.

For the next five minutes or so, I walk along, basking in my triumph, and trying to ignore Holmes kicking snow at my ankles with a vengeance. Whether it was for putting up the Christmas tree, dragging him out of the house against his will, or beating him to the silencing quip, I am not certain. But I know he's not doing it by accident. Accident my Jezail!

I do beg your pardon for my strong language, dear reader.

...

It was a very uneventful walk, but I am glad of the chance to stretch my legs for a good few minutes and clear my mind with a brisk burst of activity. Although it is getting colder now; if it gets too cold, I won't be able to walk back to Baker Street. I'd only be able to limp with Holmes' assistance.

"Come, Holmes, we better head for home," I say, and he looks at me.

"Yes, let us return to our rooms and warm y the fire with some tea and brandy." He answers.

Before I could commend him on his excellent idea, I spot a rat on the road, sniffing at the cobbles. I could hear Toby begin to growl. Without warning, Toby suddenly shoots off, barking like a madman. I panic when I see him run into the road to chase after the rat.

"TOBY!" I yell out, and I run after him, right onto the road, eager to rescue Toby from fatal harm.

I end up halfway across when I hear a loud bellow behind me, and a force knocks me off my feet to the side- just as a cab rolls past at high speed.

I gasp as I land on my bad shoulder, jarring the wound. My left cheek also gives a tingling burn, as does my palm.

"Watson!"

I look up- and spy Sherlock Holmes leaning over me, a panicked look in his eyes.

"Watson, please say you are unhurt!" He gasps in shock.

"Holmes, I am fine," I smile with shaky relief. "I have just scraped my cheek and hand. Not to mention jarred my wound."

"My apologies, Watson."

"Still, if it had not been for your quick thinking, I might have been"-

"If you say it, Watson, I will not be held responsible for my actions." He warns me, his eyes steeling over again.

"Well, thank you, Holmes, for not allowing the worst to happen." I tell him sincerely. "You saved my life."

Holmes grunts.

"Next time, Watson, if you want to go for a walk, we'll go somewhere with no cabs." He decides firmly.

"I see you actually will come with me." I reply mischievously.

"Of course, Watson. Who else will throw themselves in front of a cab for your unobservant self?" Holmes questions.


	21. Lost Luggage

Prompt: Watson and Mary's honeymoon goes awry.

From: Hades Lord of the Dead

A/N: I did some research for the Victorian honeymoon. Turns out only the best man knew where the wedded couple were going, and he had to be sworn to secrecy 😉 So, Holmes would be the only man who knows where his Boswell is during his honeymoon with Mary

...

"Here you are, my love." I offer a hand to my new wife to help her down the ship's ramp.

"Oh, thank you, John!" Mary smiles at me, her white teeth sparkling in the Venetian sunshine.

Mary and I had just been joined in matrimony, and as soon as our society's etiquette allowed, we caught a train to the harbour to sail away to Venice and experience the city of canals.

"Oh, John, it's beautiful!" She breathes, as we gaze over beautiful white houses gleaming in the sunshine, and glittering canals winding amidst the streets, with gondolas of red and green afloat on these canals.

"Yes, it is," I reply, reaching her cheek with my hand and caressing it tenderly. "And I am most fortunate to be here with you."

Mary gives me a smile filled with warmth and love. "As am I, darling." She replies.

"Now, let's find our accommodation, and we could explore afterwards." I suggest.

"Splendid idea." Mary says, her eyes sparkling brightly, reminding me of those pearls of Agra which brought the two of us together into our courtship and eventual matrimony.

...

Alas, I do regret suggesting it- for when the two of us arrive at our hotel room at the Hotel Danieli, we find we are a suitcase short- and the contents in question belong to me. What is even worse, much to my dismay, that one has my medical supplies for the trip, should anything go wrong whilst we were travelling or in Venice itself.

"Are you sure we had all of them when we left, John?" Mary asks me, quietly, as I pace around the room- akin to what Holmes had done in my former lodgings with him in 221B Baker Street.

"I could have sworn I never left any of our suitcases anywhere, darling." I answer in concern, unwilling to admit my medical supplies are now missing. "I'm sure Holmes gave me- Holmes!" I growl suddenly in realisation.

"John?"

"What if Holmes stole our luggage so he could pester me on our honeymoon?"

"Now, that's being unfair, my love. I'm sure he didn't mean to." Mary answers, taking hold of my shoulders and massaging them gently. "He's a man of odd habits, but he is a gentleman as much as you are, John."

"You're right, Mary," I sigh, and allow myself to relax under her caress. "Holmes wouldn't aggravate me on purpose like this- especially since we just got married. Now, shall we go out for a while?" I offer, to change the subject.

I have no desire to think about Holmes at present; not when I am with my new wife on our honeymoon.

...

To forget about the lost suitcase and relax, we decide to visit the oldest café in history, according to our tour guide, Pino Gratellino.

"It is-a been around-a since 1720!" He tells us proudly, as we head along to our destination. As we walk, I feel Mary take my hand in her own; I allow my fingers to clasp round hers in return, and we smile as though we had first met, allowing Gratellino's ramblings to fade into the background.

...

The café is a splendid building of opulence- Mary and I brush past white curtains of the softest fabric and sit down at a small white table with the softest red chairs I had ever recalled sitting on.

They are much more comfortable than the mess halls of Afghanistan, that is certain.

"Oh, isn't this place wonderful?" Mary asks me in delight as Pino goes off to talk with a friend of his- a young waiter no older than 23.

"It is certainly different from Simpsons." I answer, before realising I had been thinking about Holmes again.

"Well, I do like it so," Replies Mary. "But I wouldn't want to live in such luxury all the time, John." She takes my hand in her own in squeezes it knowingly. I smile back at her.

That is something I have always loved about my Mary- she is a woman who wants a simple but comfortable living means. When we first met during the events of the case I later titled 'The Sign of Four', she had been an heiress to a fortune from her late father, and social etiquette indicated that whilst she stood to claim her inheritance, I could not think to propose to her, take her to be my wife.

It was most fortunate for both of us that that fortune now lies rusting in the Thames, for it meant that I could propose to her without looking like I was after her fortune, and she accepted.

I smile giddily reminiscing these happy events; just as Mary taps my arm. "John? The waiter." She says.

Before me is an ugly specimen of humanity. His wart covered nose is crooked to his upper lip, his hair grey and balding, his eyes shining a dull blue. His attire, however, is immaculate in comparison; black suit with white shirt and a small black bow tie, neatly tied.

"I'm sorry, old man," I apologise. "I"-

"That is quite alright, Doctor," Replies the waiter in a deep, monotone Venetian accent, and I frown at Mary. "How does he know I'm a doctor?"

"I know you are an English army doctor on holiday with your wife, Doctor Watson." The waiter replies, and my blood runs cold with fright and anger at this approach.

Pino and his friend come over to enquire our wellbeing on seeing my shoulders tense up. "Scusami, Medico, is this waiter bothering you?" Pino asks us in concern.

But the second Venetian frowns in a scrutinizing manner at the ugly waiter.

"Waiter? I have worked here for two years, and I have never seen this man in my life until now." The young waiter, Antonio, answers in confusion.

At this, I leap from my chair with such sudden violence that all three men step back. "John, please, don't hurt him!" Mary begs, leaping to her feet.

"Mary, this man knows who I am! He could be a threat to us!" I reply, bending his arm behind his back threateningly. "Alright, who sent you?" I hiss threateningly into his ear "I don't know who you are, but you seem to know more about me than I have disclosed. Tell me all you know, or else."

"I also know you have a loaded revolver in your coat pocket." He continues nonchalantly, without any fear of my- rather pathetic- threat.

Deciding a little 'motivation' is all that was required, I look away from him for a few moments to fish it out. Smirking, I pull my ever-present revolver out of my pocket with triumph-

And standing in front of me-instead of the Venetian waiter- was the face of my friend, Sherlock Holmes.

...

"What the- how the devil did you get here, Holmes?!" I fume, quickly lowering my revolver. As my best man, he knew exactly where I was bound for my honeymoon- but how did he follow us without my knowledge?

"I came the same way you did, dear boy," He answers cheerfully, oblivious to my anger.

"John, please, don't strike him." Mary tells me

"I thought I would tag along, Watson, because you left this at Baker Street when you went to your wedding." Holmes fishes out a small, battered and black suitcase from his person and hands it to me. "I see you have had no need of it, which is a relief."

"No need of it... John, you didn't!" Mary says disappointedly.

"Yes, I left my medical supplies at 221B." I sigh. "Oh, and I was going to break your arm off, Holmes!" I add in despair. I look up at his gaunt face, and I feel my heart soften. ""Thank you, Holmes." I finish, with no small amount of relief and gratitude for my friend's defiance of our social customs for our sakes.

"Yes, thank you, Mr. Holmes." Mary adds sweetly, smiling at him. "Why don't you join us for afternoon tea, as a thank you?"

"Yes. I do feel awful for wasting your time on my behalf." I add.

Holmes wavers, uncertain. His fidgeting and doubt makes him much younger and more vulnerable. I rarely witnessed such moments from my friend, and I could tell whether to laugh in mirth or take his hand.

In the end, Mary and I both persuade the consulting detective to sit, and on Mary inquiring whether he was working on any new cases, he excitedly plunges into a narrative on a case involving an insomniac cleric, an anonymous letter and a missing emerald necklace.


	22. Baking Bad

Prompt: Christmas cookies

From: Book Girl Fan

Warnings: Bad puns ahead! :D and some silliness from Lestrade

...

A clatter and twice as many bangs greeted me as I step inside 221B. An acrid smell lingers in the air, but there was no one at the table near the window, on which lay Holmes' chemical experiments.

All I hear is a muffled curse coming from the kitchen. "Hurry, Doctor! Can't you save them?"

"I'm trying, Holmes!" The good doctor hisses back. I frown in contemplation on hearing this odd conversation. "Now, Holmes, bring me the gauze!"

What in blazes are those two up to now?

For all I know, they could be operating on half dead orphans in there... but Watson wouldn't do that, save for an emergency when the poor wretch is dying and there's no chance of getting to Charing Cross or any other hospital quickly enough.

It does smell very suspicious in there, though... and I suspect Mr. Holmes isn't trying some new kind of tobacco either, I decide wryly as I study some stray tobacco on the living room floor.

"Well, you've got the cuffs, Lestrade- just go and investigate," I tell myself firmly. Steeling myself up for what sights, smells and possibly sounds I would encounter on opening the door, I walk up to it and let my hand rest ever so lightly on the door handle.

"Watson, we have lost one."

I freeze. Surely... I only thought it was a theory! But it seems like Doctor Watson and Mr. Holmes are operating on poor souls in there!

"Hand me my scalpel, Holmes, old chap. This might be tricky." Watson answers.

"Right."

I hear a rummaging, and then a 'thank you' from Watson. "Now," he says. "We're going to need some sort of makeshift bandage for this laceration right here."

With a deafening bellow that surprised even me, I kick at the door, causing the hinges to come loose before storming in on the kitchen, ignoring their screams of shock and their curses at being disturbed in such a manner.

"Mr Holmes, Doctor Watson, you are both under arrest for murdering- gingerbread biscuits?!" I splutter in disbelief.

Sure enough, several burnt gingerbread men lay on the kitchen table- about a dozen or so. One had his head missing, another a broken leg, and two more looking slightly deformed. The rest looked intact, albeit covered in black.

"Well, Holmes, we'd be the first two men in all of England to be hanged for murdering gingerbread men." Watson says dryly.

"Yes," Agrees Holmes, with the wry sarcasm well known to Scotland Yard officials. "Two perfectly handsome gentlemen overdoing the oven temperature just a tad and he swings on the rope for it."

Cheeks brazen with embarrassment, I start trying to interrogate them on what I heard to try and cover up my mishap.

"But, I- I heard you, Doctor, tell Mr. Holmes to get your scalpel!" I say.

"Yes. But it's a different scalpel from the one I normally use. And it was to pry off one of the gingerbread men who got stuck." Watson tells me.

And the gauze?"

"Ah- we were about to apply it before you arrived, Lestrade." Holmes explains with an impish smile, showing me a bowl of white icing. I growl at him in response, like a provoked Mastiff.

"As for Holmes mentioning we lost one, and the laceration; well, those ones got broken." Watson continues. "Or at least their limbs broke off."

At this, Holmes starts laughing at me. "Oh, dear Heavens, Lestrade! It appears you are better at your job than my initial conceptions!"

"Indeed!" Watson answers, and begins to join in on Holmes' mirth. "I don't suppose we could _sweeten_ the judge to give us lighter sentences, eh, Holmes?"

"Should we do so, my dear Watson, we might have to tread that matter very gingerly, Watson." He agrees through his chortling, looking up at me with tears of mirth forming in his grey eyes.

I huff, but I find a small smile tugging at my lips at their laughter.

"Getting a few years in prison in comparison to hanging will be the icing on the cake." Holmes continues mischievously. "Or, in this case, the gingerbread man."

"Indeed, Holmes!" Watson giggles in reply, placing an arm on Holmes' shoulder for support. "We better run, run as fast as we can! You can't catch us, Lestrade. We're the Gingerbread Man Killers!"

"Oh, excellent play on words, Doctor!" Booms Holmes, smirking with amusement. "I never thought a child's fairy tale would make such excellent verbal ammunition."

I blink at them owlishly. "You two are absolutely nuts." I tell them seriously.

"And we have only you to thank for that, Lestrade." Holmes tells me, sincerely, his eyes glinting with an unusual combination of mirth and honesty. "Had it not been for your show of idiocy, Watson and I would most certainly have been despondent at how much of a blow this attempt at baking is to our esteem."

"I- um- you're welcome, Mr. Holmes," I tell him in confusion. "Well, I better head along back to the Yard."

"Any reason you're here, Lestrade?" Holmes inquires curiously. But I suspect he's beaten me to it already, the cunning devil.

"Ah, I wanted to ask if you were interested in helping us on a case." I reply.

"We'll discuss details in the cab. Along with the bill for the door repairs." Holmes informs me. "Come, my dear Watson, grab your things! The game is afoot!"

I sigh.


	23. A Childhood Tradition

Prompt: Holmes has one unusual Christmas tradition.

From: Hades Lord of the Dead

A/N: This is a French Christmas tradition. It's not so much unusual, but I thought in Victorian England contexts, it would be odd, to say the least. But I can imagine Holmes doing it as a child when in France with his grandmother! 😊

This is set (or meant to be) in their earlier days of friendship.

...

I am very much aware of many of the eccentricities and quirks of my new flatmate, Sherlock Holmes. He shoots the wall out of boredom, takes cocaine when feeling a severe lack of stimulation, plays the violin to assist his thinking, forgoes sleep and consistent meals on cases, and uses his chemistry set for knowledgeable pursuits.

What I do not expect, however, is to trip over Holmes' shoes whilst trying to find my tobacco on the mantel.

"Holmes!" I call out, irritated. "What on Earth are your shoes doing here?"

He looks up from his monograph on how to identify different sleeping draughts and their effects, and glares. "You could watch where you step, Watson." He suggests, icily.

"I do not wish to have to step round your shoes by the mantel!" I retort. "If I had fallen, Holmes, I could have cracked my head open!"

I seize them at once, and was about to march up to the front door with them to put them away and remind my new flatmate of our agreed house rules when a quiet voice objects; "Put them back, Watson."

"Why, Holmes? I fail to understand the significance of this bizarre action. Is it for a case? Or an experiment?" I ask him.

"Neither. Please, return them at once." He answers.

I sigh, and I place them down. "Well, I'm not being held accountable for anyone hitting their heads." I warn.

"I know. I'll move them in the morning, Doctor." He informs me dismissively, rising to his feet. "I shall retire to my room. Goodnight." And he skulks off, leaving me standing by the fire in utter bemusement at my friend's actions.

I jump when the living room door opens not long after Holmes' departure.

"Had a row with Mr Holmes, Doctor?" Mrs. Hudson asks me gently, carrying a tray of tea in our room.

"Sort of, Mrs. Hudson. Only I'm not sure what it is about or why." I reply, still confused about the argument at hand. "He left his shoes by the fireplace, I tripped on them, and when I told him to move them, he told me to leave them there, and that he would move them in the morning."

"Ah. I see he hasn't told you, Doctor. Mr Holmes had a French grandmother whom he doted on, sir. He and his family would spend Christmas with her in France and he would leave his shoes by the fireplace so that small gifts could be lain inside. I am not certain why he does this still, but he has done this every Christmas Eve. I suppose he could just be honouring a childhood tradition, or perhaps he's trying to bring France to England. Either way, I never once questioned or challenged it in all the time I've known him, sir."

I realised with a sinking dismay that by ignorantly interfering with something cherished by my flatmate, I had soured our relationship, and I felt awful.

"I've been a foolish cad, Mrs. Hudson." I answer. "I never thought for a moment this was another one of his peculiarities. I must apologise."

"My advice to you, Doctor Watson, is to leave Mr. Holmes until morning. You and he can get a good night's sleep and then apologise in the morning."

With that, she turns on her heel and exits, leaving me with my tea and my thoughts on how to make it up to Holmes.

Staring at his shoes, I suddenly come up with an idea. It was a bit last minute, but hopefully, I could try and see if I could make it up to my new friend.

I run up to my room, and rummage around in my bags and coat pockets for anything of potential interest, but would be small enough for my plan.

...

The next morning, I smile warmly as Holmes comes to the table fully dressed but bleary eyed and grumpy looking. He sits down across from me and lets Mrs Hudson put a plate of bacon, sausages and egg in front of him with a silent acquiesce.

"Would you care for some coffee, Holmes?" I offer, holding the coffee pitcher towards him.

He waves his hand dismissively, which I know means a 'yes' in his language. We say nothing as I pour his coffee and push it towards him.

"Holmes," I say, before he thanks me. "I just want to apologise for my rude behaviour last night. I was not aware that it is your custom to leave your shoes by the fireplace."

"You are forgiven, Doctor." Holmes replies, with the ghost of a smile gracing his lean face. "I feel that I should have been more informative than defensive as to last night's actions."

Figuring that is as close to an apology from him as I can get, I let myself relax, and not another word was exchanged as we ate our meals.

...

After breakfast, Holmes decides to fulfil his promise to tidy his shoes away, and he shuffles over to remove them. From behind the newspaper, I watch him pause, stoop-

"Watson," he says in surprise. "There are things in my shoes."

Realising I could have made a mistake on acting on my spur of the moment idea, I was close to admitting that it is my fault that his shoes are in their current condition.

Instead, he makes a noise of delight and claps his hands in a childish glee I had never witnessed in the great Sherlock Holmes.

He fishes out some mint humbugs and chocolate creams, a new sachet of tobacco, a silver rupee from my travels in Afghanistan, a new oak pipe, a notebook and two new embossed red fountain pens for his note taking whenever he conducts experiments.

"Well, this... this certainly brings back some happy memories." He says to me with a smile more likely to be seen on a schoolboy than the Great Detective himself. "I do appreciate the thought behind this. Thank you, Watson."

I'm not at all sure why I am surprised that he knows it was me. I am living with London's most observant man (and the silver rupee could be a big giveaway) but I am, nevertheless.

"You're most welcome, Holmes." I answer. "Merry Christmas, old fellow."

"Merry Christmas, Watson."


	24. It's a Miracle!

Prompt: A Christmas Eve miracle.

From: Hades Lord of the Dead

A/N; Contains religious themes

...

Ever since the completion of the Gribbonschaften murders in a modest home in Devon, I felt very peculiar, that something was prickling away inside me.

Holmes sat beside me on the train ride home to London on Christmas Eve, his unlit pipe gripped between his teeth in thought. I longed to discuss what this feeling was, but he did not look as though he would permit a word to pass his lips, friendly or otherwise.

I listened to the screeches of the locomotive, five carriages ahead of us, and the humming and quiet rumblings of the coaches behind, allowing these sounds to gradually melt into a blur of noise as I continued to ponder what was the reason behind my unrest. Deciding to eliminate the impossible, as my friend would do, I allowed my mind free reign to think over possible causes for my disturbance.

It could not be some nagging little details about the case, for Holmes had explained everything to me on the cab to the train station. I was looking forward to returning to Baker Street for one of Mrs. Hudson's hot meals, a warm bath and a cosy bed. I could not entirely say the same for my companion, for he is one of relentless energies and unpredictable actions, so it could hardly be about returning to London, either.

I gazed out of the window of the train, allowing silhouettes of bushes, trees and lonely farmers' cottages and barns roll by, their cheerful colours lost to the gloom of Nyx. All the while, the feeling did not dissipate, and it refused to remain as a constant; indeed, it intensified as we sped on down the track.

Deciding to go and stretch my legs for a little while, I rose from my green covered seat, and quietly excused myself, but Holmes merely lay in thought, staring at the ceiling in a contemplative manner. Rolling my eyes in fond exasperation despite my troubled mind, I stepped out of our compartment and closed the door behind me.

Almost at the same time, I saw someone step from their compartment further down towards me. It was a woman with hair blacker than anything of Erubus's creation swept up in a bun. She was dressed in a male's dark brown breeches and white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to her needle-sharp elbows, and her body, including her slender hands and delicately carved face, were covered in coal dust. Her eyes were a lovely hazel, burning with a unique fire that suggested a headstrong personality. I wondered briefly if I had seen her somewhere before, for she stirred some familiarity within my mind, but I could not place her anywhere.

"Good evening, miss," I greeted her politely, for I could also see her ring finger lacked a wedding band; or indeed any jewellery.

"Evening, sir." Her voice sounded calm and reassuring. She

"It's a pleasant night to be travelling," I continued, feeling rather awkward standing next to this young lady. She appeared to be no older than Holmes, and yet she seemed to have some masterful nature about her.

She did not answer me, but instead gave me a look with her hypnotising eyes. She looked at me in such a way that I did not realise her hand had snaked itself around my own until she gave a gentle squeeze.

"Trust me, Doctor, and all will be well." She said at last.

Confused, I was about to ask for the meaning behind her statement, when from the front of the train came a loud screech and an eardrum grilling, dull metallic ' _BANG!'_. Seconds after, the carriages rocked and swayed violently against the rails, before our carriage was flung onto the right-hand side, and lay there. I could hear a loud snap between our coach and the one behind. I felt myself being thrown off my feet and hitting the wall like an unwanted toy.

The whole event seemed like it was happening so slowly, but it was over relatively quick in contrast.

...

When I could rise without sinking back into unconsciousness, ears still ringing madly after the accident, my first thoughts were turned to my friend, and whether he still lived. Giving no thought for my own self, I ploughed back down the corridor to our compartment, now buried in the muddy, snow covered embankment along which less than two minutes ago we had been running alongside.

"HOLMES!" I cried out, trying to push the door open, but to no avail.

"Watson! Are you hurt, old man?!" I hear his voice muffled, but doubtlessly concerned over my wellbeing.

"I'm fine, Holmes- you're the one in the compartment!" I answered frantically, trying again to rough the door open. But it was hopeless, for my leg and shoulder were both jarred from the crash and I could not carry on.

"I am unhurt, Watson- now go and see to the other passengers, I will attempt to get myself out of here!"

"I cannot, Holmes- my bag is in there with you!"

The detective let out a muffled curse on hearing this. "Do what you can, old man! I shall attempt to be prompt about my escape."

Unwillingly, I looked round the compartment, and hurried to find the lady with whom I had been before the train went down.

But she was nowhere to be seen.

...

The only one who was in her compartment was a frightened old woman, trembling with shock from the impact of the crash. I soothingly asked her questions about herself whilst checking over any possible injuries. Surprisingly, there were none.

"Oh, Doctor! I fear that I am dead or going mad!" She wailed, as she sobbed into her hands.

"It will be alright, Mrs. June," I replied, patting her weathered hand in comfort before handing her my handkerchief. "I can assure you that both of those conclusions are not the truth."

"But, I saw a lady in my compartment, Doctor Watson!" She said frantically, grabbing my arms with a surprisingly strong grip. "She was dressed in a man's clothing, but she was gentler than any nurse I had ever encountered in all my life!"

Hearing this made my heart freeze over in shock. "I... did she have black hair and coal dust on her face and hands?" I asked her gently.

"Why, yes!" Mrs. June exclaimed. "You saw her too?"

I nodded numbly, realising something strange was going on...

...

On interviewing other people in the same carriage as us, they all confirmed the same sighting of the lady dressed as a man. And, more surprising still, they were all unhurt. Not a single bruise was to be found on them, not even a scratch; despite the broken glass from the windows, the luggage bags high overhead which could have caused head trauma or strangulation.

I had just finished interviewing the last passenger when I felt a hand place itself on my shoulder. I recognised the contact at once, and turned around.

"I do apologise for the delay, my dear Watson, but I found it somewhat harder to escape than I had initially anticipated."

"Holmes," I smiled in relief. "You will not believe this, but not one soul from this coach has been injured or killed in the crash."

At this, my friend frowned. "That is peculiar, Watson," he said in response. "For I had overheard train staff mention that coaches one to five and even the locomotive itself also have suffered from no injuries or casualties despite the severity of the crash."

"What caused this accident, anyway, Holmes?" I queried.

"We ran into another train, Watson. The mail train of all things." He gave a distasteful sniff at this. "I never believed the mail to be a shining example of punctuality or good timing. It seems that Fate decided to prove us correct on both counts."

"But Holmes, not one man, woman or child died on this train. Many people would have perished in the crash; you and Mrs. June would have been very probable victims. What strange fortune has befallen this accident?" I asked, still bemused about the whole matter.

"I do not know, Watson. But it seems that perhaps this is something that could not be explained." Holmes answered solemnly. "Perhaps it is best left to mere speculation, Watson."

I said nothing, but due to defiance of physics and the probabilities of survival of the collision, I was convinced that we had not bene saved by chance, but rather by a guardian angel.


	25. Undramatic Exits

Prompt: Exit stage left

From: Kitschgeist

...

Mrs Hudson had to deal with the comings and goings of her tenant's clients for quite some years now.

They were irregular, unexpected. She opened the door to all manners of strangers; may they be beggars and vagrants with only rags on their backs and a penny naught, or government officials and even members of European royal families, as well as all classes of London society in between.

Many a soul she had taken up to Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson to allow them to discuss their cases with the detective and the doctor before leaving the room to make tea or coffee for the shaken clients.

Much respectful nods had been made and then, before she could blink twice, she would be closing the door behind her, shutting out the interesting details of their visitors' problems; not that she would resort to eavesdropping on people in a plight and needed to explicitly confide in her tenants in full confidentiality.

Over the years, she had mastered her departure just when Mr. Holmes would begin his deductions of that poor soul in dire need of his help, so that she would not distract anyone in the room.

Although she was rarely acknowledged for her efforts, she was not forgotten by the consulting detective, who said that Mrs. Hudson was as gifted in making timely exits, or 'exits stage left' as he put it, just as much as the doctor was extremely gifted with silence.

Honestly, that man had a bizarre notion of what the term gifted meant when it came to anyone besides himself, Mycroft and Moriarty.


	26. Role Play

Prompt: Fallout

From: Hades Lord of the Dead

A/N: this is a silly little idea I came up with after finding out that Fallout is a videogame. So, this will be very, very, VERY historically inaccurate, but I hope you all enjoy this oneshot anyway! Beware- this might not be accurate for Fallout, as I've never played it. Don't know if more than one player can play, but oh well! 😊

P.S. Fallout, it's characters and Sherlock Holmes and co belong to their rightful owners.

...

It was not an ordinary week at Baker Street.

By that, I mean that on Tuesday, we received a strange screen of sorts that played pictures on the screen. It was...it was something that was beyond my ken, but Holmes somehow worked it out, with his supercilious intellect.

And then, two days after, we received this strange box with a small shiny circle in it, with the word 'Fallout' written on it.

"I don't know nothin' about it, Doctor Watson!" Charles Minnow, the postman, exclaimed as he handed me the box. "Have you figured out what that box my colloeague brought you on Turesday?"

"Well, Holmes has. I've no idea. He's calling it a 'television' seeing as it shows random pictures on the screen when you turn it on," I replied wearily. "He's using it to look for crime reports, and weather forecasts for potential crime scene investigations."

"Poor sod," Said Murrow, sympathetically. "I get the feeling, Doc, that that thing will have him in Bedlam before Friday. I would be." He nodded sagely, as though he knew what he was talking about.

I have reasons to believe the contrary.

"Well, thank you," I said politely. "I wonder what Holmes would make of this."

Murrow threw up his arms in bafflement before shuffling up the path to the steps. I closed the door and then called on my flatmate.

...

"And you see, Watson, this disc goes in here and it contains pre-written information on it, which is then broadcast onto this!" He patted the television.

"How do you know this, Holmes?" I asked in bafflement.

"I have no sodding idea, Watson. I couldn't write this if I wanted to," He answered. "Anyway, it seems that this disc requires some sort of interaction with...us."

"What is it, Holmes?"

"Looks like it's asking whether we'll be playing in French, English or Italian." He answered, staring at the screen. "Well, what do you say, Watson?"

"Holmes, I'm...I'm not sure I could- or want to."

"I'll lock you in the lumber room with Mycroft and the rainbow kittens again. Whilst they sing space opera!" My friend threatened, folding his arms and fixing me with an icy stare.

"Alright! I'll play the wretched thing!" I sighed, not even wanting to ask where on Earth Holmes found two black pieces of plastic with buttons dotting them.

"Ah, splendid! You are an erstwhile companion, Watson!"

"Just don't be a sore loser about this," I warned, and we began the game.

...

There were three characters to pick from in the game; there was Albert Cole, who was a negotiator and charismatic leader, with a background in the legal system; there was Natalia Dubrovhsky, who was a talented acrobat and intelligent and resourceful granddaughter of a Russian diplomat in the Soviet consulate in Los Angeles, and Max Stone, the largest person in some strange place called 'the Vault' and he was well known for his strength and stamina but lacked somewhat in intelligence.

"Well, I am not playing a fool or a woman!" Holmes snorted, selecting Albert Cole for his character. "Your go, Watson!"

"Holmes, be tasteful for our readers," I chided half-heartedly, debating inwardly whom to pick for my character. In the end, I selected Natalia, for she did remind me of Mary with her intelligence. Even though I had no idea what it was her grandfather was the Russian diplomat of.

"Now, we begin!" Holmes cried, and we were at once taken to some sort of disaster zone all the way in the 22nd century- a time unbeknownst to us. Heck, we couldn't even understand the technology we were using!

 _Speak for yourself, old chap. ;)_

I really must work out how to stop Holmes scribbling on my notes. And what the hell is that symbol drawn beside his statement?

...

We were fighting to save our home 'Vault 13' from a water shortage. What ridiculousness! Although, that chip could come in handy for our own foul water systems. I wouldn't have to lose so many patients to cholera, and I could help other patients with less preventable illnesses, such as cancers.

It turned out the game required us to make various choices throughout the game, whenever we hit certain points. We ended up going south to some bizarre place called Junktown, where on meeting the mayor, Killian Darkwater, we had the option to either bring the corrupt casino head- some criminal minded chap called Gizmo - to justice, or help Gizmo assassinate Killian to take over the town for ourselves.

I was all for helping Killian get the town safely from Gizmo's clutches, but Holmes looked as though I was the most boring person in the world for saying that.

"Come on, Watson! It's not real!" He said. "Now is my chance to break the law and not get punished for it!"

"Holmes, you break the law anyway." I point out. "Think of all the unlawful things we have done!"

"Well, it's normally for the greater good, Watson. Besides, I can kill this man and not get hanged for it!"

"...is there something the matter, Holmes? Never thought I'd hear you want to kill a man." I told him. "Apart from Mycroft or Lestrade, perhaps. Or Gregson."

Holmes shrugged. "I'm feeling a little bold today, Watson. Besides, I never got to kill Winters for shooting you during the Three Garridebs case."

"..."

"Doctor?"

"...well, go ahead." I allowed, a tad reluctantly. "Better a fictional mayor than our friends, anyhow."

Holmes beamed as he pressed a button and Cole shot Darkwater dead with one bullet through the chest.

Gizmo flashed an evil, Milverton- like smile at Cole, and I shuddered. Natalia gazed indifferently at the dead man's body before somersaulting to join Gizmo and Cole.

...

About half an hour later- or more, I just know it was definitely at least a half hour had passed whilst laying this ridiculous game, we decided to take a break as our thumbs were cramping up.

"Watson, thank you for putting up with my flummadiddle interests. And my threats of using Mycroft and his rainbow kittens to torture you." He said to me sincerely as I massaged his thumbs ignoring the cramps in my own.

"Well, that's what friends are for, Holmes," I smiled. "And you know, that was actually more fun than I expected."

"Likewise. Shall we continue?" He asked me.

"Oh, yes. After dinner?"

"Naturally, my dear Watson."


	27. Fireworks

Prompt: Fireworks

From: Book girl fan

A/N: Been busy over the past few days, so pushing on to finish this! I'd like to thank everyone who has read, reviewed, favourited and followed this story so far! You are amazing people!

...

The banks of the Thames were busier that one night than ever before.

Standing by the blackened depths of national pride, steely grey eyes observing the milling crowds and a powerful mind deducing those within a certain radius, stood the esteemed sleuth Sherlock Holmes. Next to him was his dear, erstwhile companion, Doctor John H. Watson, and his wife, Mrs Mary Watson (nee Morstan.)

"I still do not see why you dragged me out here," Holmes complained to his friends as he reached into his pocket for his pipe.

"Holmes, I wouldn't recommend it," Warned Watson. "And besides, Mycroft invited us." He reminded his friend.

"Bah! Mycroft would have done better not to," Holmes huffed. "But at least he invited you, Watson. And of course, yourself, Mrs. Watson." He added awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck.

Mary smiled. "It was certainly unexpected." She admitted. "But from what I hear, Sherlock, it's going to be a most extraordinary display."

Holmes couldn't help but secretly admit that being at home was taking a toll on his genius; he had been on cocaine every night this week. But it had been a very bad comedown shortly before this evening that led him to seeking the Watsons' company.

...

" _John, look at him, he's suffering! Please, couldn't you do something?" Mary asked desperately, as she helped her husband lay the still high sleuth on the sofa._

" _He needs to drink plenty of water to replenish hydration, and he needs to sleep." Watson answered calmly. "Now, could you fetch me some rags and water please, love? I'm going to be here for a while."_

 _Holmes lay sprawled out on the sofa, like a fish on a dry riverbank. Sweat flooded his brow and behind the sweat came the pounding causing him to curl into a foetal position._

" _Holmes?" Watson queries, gently allowing a hand to run through his friend's hair to try and soothe him whilst he waited for Mary to return. "You'll be alright, old man. But until you've recovered, you are staying here with Mary and I."_

 _Holmes blinked. He never felt so weak or pathetic before-he felt that something had gone wrong with the cocaine, for he had normally had smoother comedowns than this._

 _Suddenly, he gagged violently._

 _Watson's bellow for a bucket was grating to his still drubbing head, but he was secretly somewhat relieved as he became ill into it. Watson whispered soothing nothings whilst rubbing his best friend's back between the shoulder blades comfortingly._

He had stayed there for two- three days approximately.

...

Not only was this keeping him off the cocaine - for now, at least- Holmes felt he owed his two friends so much for taking care of him and allowing him to stay in their home for those three days even though he had brought that torture upon himself.

Why were they so compassionate even when he did not deserve it? What deed had he done to be held in such high regards by the kindest creatures he had ever encountered in the human species?

He was startled out of his thoughts when he felt someone giving his hand a gentle squeeze. He smiled gratefully at his faithful companion.

"Are you alright, Holmes? You looked a little lost in thought there."

"Merely pondering, my dear Watson." Holmes answered airily. Despite his tone, Watson did not fail to observe the warmth in his best friend's eyes.

...

The show started off with a bang. Flashes of dancing silvers, dazzling golds, calming blues, rich purples, fiery reds and enticing greens all flared across the sky in time to ear piercing shrieks and wailings loud enough to shame banshees out of their trade. Mary linked her arm through her husband's, and he in turn continued holding the sleuth's hand without even realising what he was doing.

The three watched the spectacle in silent awe, revelling in each other's company and allowing the smell of gunpowder to penetrate their noses.

Glowing embers slowly drifted down to the banks before expiring with an inaudible fizzle near the feet of the captivated spectators.

…..

After fifteen minutes, the sky and the river both fade from bright, wonderful colours to inky blackness, and the crowd departed for home.

Holmes, Watson and Mary wove through the crowds, and headed on to the Watsons' home, for they had arranged to allow Holmes to spend the night with them, rather than trek back to Baker Street and remain on his own, for Mrs Hudson was away for a few days.

"I enjoyed that,2 Said Mary.

"I did too, love." Watson replied.

"But the company was exceptionally delightful," Holmes finished, before a rare smile of warmth appeared on his face.

Watson and Mary beamed reciprocatively.


	28. An Illegal Meat Trade

A/N: Hey, everyone! Sorry for being gone so long! I've had a rough week or so, to say the least. Now that I've gotten through the worst of it, I'm going to push through with the last of this challenge.

Prompt: Market

From: Kitschgeist

Warning: contains slaughter of fictional giraffes.

…..

During the near decade I had been with my friend and esteemed companion, the great Sherlock Holmes, I had encountered a great deal more depravity and cruelty on the streets of London than in the Afghan fields where I had served in the war.

One of the most shocking and cruel acts of humanity I had the misfortune to learn about, however, was amongst the markets of Edinburgh, where Holmes and I were investigating a most unique and yet horrifying case.

…

Disguising ourselves as a pair of inconspicuous Scottish cobblers, Holmes and I walked along Fleshmarket Close to solve the case.

"Do you have any leads, Holmes?" I asked him quietly.

"I have formed at least five theories, but I cannot act on them without more data." He answered in a low voice. I nodded as I tightened my ragged scarf round my neck to stifle heat. Scotland was oft recognized as having miserable weather and low temperatures.

To avoid keeping you in suspense, dear readers, the case Holmes and I are currently on concerns the illegal smuggling and slaughter of giraffes, brought in from India and Africa by the shipload before being drugged to the nines and meeting their brutal ends by knives. But the worst part of this was that their flesh was then sold on to unsuspecting Scotch women merely looking to purchase affordable meat for their families' evening meals.

It is a most despicable business- one Holmes and I are determined to end this evening.

"Are you alright there, my friend?" Holmes asked me casually, catching me off guard.

"Yes- why wouldn't I be?"

"You lie deplorably, my dear Watson," Holmes replied, so softly I could have sworn a spirit was in my presence, had he not been standing right next to me.

I let out an Afghan curse under my breath. Despite my attempts to do it quietly, Holmes allowed a stray, thin hand to thump against my arm- hard.

"What the blazes was that for, Holmes?!" I asked him, in self justified indignation.

"One slip of truth as to our identities, and we will face a far worse brutality than the giraffes we are attempting to save!" Holmes hissed back, his voice still almost as quiet as a spirit. "As far as these unknowing Scots are concerned, you have never been abroad in your life! So, cease talking at once, unless the need arises."

I let out a hurt huff in reply, but obeyed, as was my wont when I was solving cases with my friend.

I was surprised when I felt my hand in his own- but was touched beyond words when he briefly but gently squeezed my hand in apology before letting go.

I silently forgave Holmes, and we allowed ourselves to melt into the Edinburgh markets, determined to end the giraffe smuggling once and for all….


	29. An Unexpected Gift

Prompt: Moran at Christmas

From: Book girl fan

Contains MoriartyXMoran! Enjoy, lovely people- even though its February!

Warnings: Contains indirect mentions of sex at the end. And someone listening in on that, in case anyone feels uncomfortable reading it.

…..

"You heard me, didn't you, Solomon?"

"…Yes, I did, boss. You want me to cook him and serve him on a silver platter." The short, thin man intoned dully.

"Good. Do be so kind as to remember the stuffing this time." The Professor said, his voice softer than Mongolian silk. The threats of what he would do to Solomon remained unspoken, and yet, the chef got the message, loud and clear.

Solomon nodded, and bowed into the shadows of Moriarty's lair. As soon as he as gone, the professor rolled his eyes in explicit frustration.

"Well, I hope Moran likes our festive celebrations this year, as I most certainly will not be…." He snarled to himself.

He got up from his chair and wandered around the lair, pondering over why he had let Moran celebrate Christmas this year. Several reasons came to mind which he had considered over his decision.

One was that Moran, oddly, loved Christmas- ever since he was in short trousers, and never failed to do something to celebrate the occasion, no matter how small. Secondly, Moran was so damn persuasive sometimes, and it drove him insane when he agreed to do something against his will, all because of his lover's honeyed tone, his swaying words….

And lastly, it was technically their first Christmas together as a couple of sorts since they started their romantic relationship in the spring. How could he have possibly said no?

Well, he was more wondering how he could have said yes. Fortunately, Moran agreed to low key decorations, so there was only a tree, proudly ablaze with candles and a few decorations in the corner.

Suddenly, he heard someone singing the lyrics of 'Bleak Midwinter' from upstairs. And not just someone, either… it was Moran. Moriarty was about to snarl at his second in command/lover to shut up or face the consequences, when he noted that Moran was a much better singer than he had made himself out to be initially.

Curious, he went up the iron stairs towards their bedroom to find out what Moran was up to, exactly. And why he was singing Bleak Midwinter.

….

"In the bleak mid-winter

Frosty wind made moan;

Earth stood hard as iron,

Water like a stone;

Snow had fallen, snow on snow,

Snow on snow,

In the bleak mid-winter

Long ago."

Moriarty couldn't lie- that singing voice sounded so deep and so melodic- he cursed as he found himself becoming deeply aroused by his boyfriend's singing, and he threw the door open.

The kiss came as soon as he saw the mistletoe hanging cheerfully from the door, as though it had always been there.

….

"Moran, what is the meaning of this?" Moriarty demanded. His lover grinned, his white teeth glimmering like pearls.

"Well, James, I thought I'd surprise you, is all." He said cheerfully, which only irritated Moriarty even more.

"Sebastian, please could you tell me what is going on here?" he asked sternly.

"Your Christmas present of course, my love," Moran continued with a purr. "You let me celebrate Christmas- despite your obvious dislike for it, so I thought I would repay the favor."

Moriarty couldn't help but admit that his curiosity was piqued by this proposal, despite his usual hatred for surprises. "Well, what is it?"

"You'll find out soon enough," Purred Moran, seductively, reaching out for his courtier's cravat and untying it mischievously.

Moriarty grinned wickedly when he felt Moran's fingers sneak their way down the collar of his shirt onto his shoulder and massaged it gently, his skin tingling deliciously at the sensational touch.

"Oh, Moran, you are naughty," he smirked. "And I love it."

"I knew you would," said Moran, pulling Moriarty in for a long, passionate kiss. "After all, would you settle for anything less? I know I wouldn't."

"If you do, I'll skin you alive."

"I love you too, James," Smirked Moran, allowing himself to shut the door before pulling the genius professor onto the bed after him.

…..

Unbeknownst to the pair, Solomon was hovering outside their bedroom door, his giant, clipped ear against the keyhole, listening to the moans of pleasure and content of the two men within.

"Oh, Moran, sing for me, please" Sighed Moriarty. "You have a wonderful voice."

"With pleasure," Grunted Moran in delight.

Solomon continued to listen in, forgetting the fact that the turkey was still cooking….


	30. Role Model

Prompt: Role Model

From: I'm Nova

….

Our dear, long suffering landlady, Mrs. Hudson, ensures we receive the newspaper and any mail Holmes and I have whilst we partake in her delicious breakfasts.

And today was no exception, for she brought us The Times and a stack of letters and placed everything by my elbow.

"There you are, gentlemen." She said. "Will that be all?"

"Yes, thank you Mrs. Hudson," I said gratefully. She nodded in reply and swept out of the room with her mastered grace and quiet dignity.

"Well, Watson, let's see if we have anything of interest!" Holmes said gleefully, rubbing his hands together expectantly.

"Don't get too excited, Holmes," I warned, as I opened an envelope. It contained a thank you letter from one of my patients.

It read:

' _Dear Doctor Watson,_

 _I am writing to you to thank you for helping me cure my son's pneumonia. Your dedication and patience._

 _Yours,_

 _Emily Downwell'_

It was…. Well, it was polite and cordial, but it also felt artificial to me, for reasons I could not determine. I sighed, placing the letter to the side.

"Is something the matter, Watson?" Holmes asked. "A patient passed away in the night?"

"No, nothing of the matter," I said, not even bothering to chastise him for his glacial bluntness. "I…it's nothing important, my dear Holmes."

"Hm. But it is bothering you, regardless, my dear fellow. More coffee?" He asked, to change the subject.

I nodded and reached for another letter as he poured me a second coffee. I mumbled a quiet thank you to my flatmate and tore open the letter with unprecedented dread.

It was another 'thank you' letter to me, but instead of the artificial first letter, this one felt more…. vibrant and warm.

It read as follows:

' _Dear Doctor Watson,_

 _You might not remember me, but I remember you. You helped me deliver my first child two months ago. Little John Thomas is doing very well, and so am I. Your compassion and earnestness to help when I was unexpectedly going into labour has inspired me to become a doctor. I know that there are prejudices against women going into 'male dominated' professions, but I do not care for that in the slightest. If our gracious Queen could overcome all odds for her country, I shall overcome the same odds for my kinsmen and women._

 _Thank you, John Watson, for being such an inspiration to all you help and kindness to me, when I was alone and at my most vulnerable. May God bless you and keep you in good health for the rest of your days_

 _Yours truly,_

 _Flora Lark,'_

I smiled at the sight of this letter. I did remember the patient in question- she was out running errands when she unexpectedly went into labor near the butchers' store. Fortunately, Holmes and I were partaking in a walk around London and came across the unfortunate woman, so I offered my medical assistance, despite the social abnormality of it.

"Well, looks like you have become a role model, Watson," Holmes remarked, taking a bite of bacon.

"So I have, Holmes, so I have," I answered. "Now I feel much better."

"Good, because I have a case- may I count on your assistance?" he asked, pointing his greasy, empty fork at me.

"I'm your man." I answered.

"Excellent! I will give the details in the cab! Come, my dear doctor- the game is afoot!"


	31. Role Play 2

Prompt: "Don't Shoot!"

From: Book girl fan

A/N: Well, I finally finished the challenge! Thank you all so much for reading, and for your lovely reviews on 'Earth Stood as Hard as Iron'!

This prompt follows on from the 26th. Again, this might not be accurate, as I am relying on my own research instead of first hand experience. Apologies for lack of correct details.

….

As promised, Holmes and I were back at the… 'Fallout' thing. Marching into battle at various points throughout this strange process reminded me of being in Afghanistan, serving Her Majesty's armies.

As such, readers would argue that I had an advantage over Holmes. But he had a far superior intellect that I constantly bowed to- and he was an excellent problem solver, as you good readers can observe for yourselves.

As a result, we both worked quite well together defeating the enemies. To be honest, I feel that Holmes and I would work together on everything during our lives.

If I don't murder him for waking me up at 3 o'clock in the morning with his wretched violin, that is.

Holmes and I were doing rather well; our approaches to the game ensured us a great deal of progress with minimal cursing- with only a minor word or two from Holmes following a small mishap on the game.

Unfortunately, we ran into trouble when we reached Necropolis- a city filled with undead humans rampaging the streets, trying to undo our efforts.

"We're outnumbered, Holmes!" I exclaimed.

"Damn it!" He snapped in reply. "DO something, Watson!"

I attempted to shoot some of the undead people, only to find myself under attack by these mutated assailants. "Holmes, I'm done for!" I said.

"Not on my watch!" Holmes cried, and attempted to help me- only his character died as soon as he ran forward two steps.

"Damn it." He muttered. "You're on your own, Watson. But on the upside, my death was a perfect demonstration of"-

"Sheer stupidity?" I hazarded.

"No, Watson," he glared at me, to which I paid no attention. "It demonstrates Mycroft's attitude to getting out of his chair."

I began snickering at Holmes' insult towards his brother- only to find out with alarm that I was even closer to death than before, with me only having one 'bar' of life left before I too perished.

But before I could resign myself to my fate, I heard gunshots that were not my own. Puzzled, I looked round the screen to find a non-mutated character standing in the background, holding a large gun.

"Don't shoot!" I exclaimed in alarm, before realizing the futility of such an action. Indeed, I also realized this after Holmes cuffed my head for my stupid remark- though not as hard as I know he can do so- and I held my breath.

The character seemingly paused- and then opened fire.

….

I was surprised, however, when the enemy was attacked instead of me! I wondered who could have come to our rescue so unexpectedly.

Or rather, my rescue, seeing as Holmes somehow got himself killed within two seconds.

 _I did nothing of the kind- you did nothing to help me, even though I was close to death. :(_

For God's sake, Holmes! Will he ever stop messing with my narrative!

 _Never, Watson. I always mess with things. I am 'Holmes the meddler, Holmes the busybody, Holmes the Scotland Yard Jack in office', remember? :D_

Well, can't argue with a reference. I'm sure you readers will appreciate it, even if I don't. And why does he keep using those blasted symbols? Is he speaking in some kind of code I know nothing about?

….

I was still puzzling over our rescuer when I heard someone cackling gleefully.

"Look out, Watson, the Wicked Witch of the West!" Holmes shrieked in alarm.

"Holmes, are you referencing the Wizard of Oz? It doesn't even exist yet." I said wearily.

Holmes frowned. "I'm not sure, Watson. But this thing is well beyond our time, and therefore, that shouldn't be our biggest issue." He pointed out, pointing to the 'TV'.

"Touché." I answered- just as Mrs. Hudson came in storming in our room, gleefully waving a small black contraption that was eerily similar to ours.

"Did you see that, gentlemen?" She crowed. "Tat is how you play it!"

"Mrs. Hudson?!" Holmes and I echoed in shock and surprise.

"Yep! I got you boys out of that one, didn't i?"

"You certainly did, Mrs. Hudson." I said, numbly. Holmes leaned over to me.

"Well, Watson, I did always say that Mrs. Hudson was a formidable force of her own reckoning." He whispered in my ear.

"I believe you now, Holmes," I answered back quietly. "I didn't expect her to take out a whole army of mutated zombies like that."

Not only that, but she broke into vault 12 and retrieved the water chip we were looking for- with no help from us whatsoever.

"Well, Watson, looks like I'm not the only one to have been beaten by a woman." He smirked at me.

"Oh shut up, Holmes!" I retorted. "I only got beaten by Mrs. Hudson! Irene Adler and Mary both beat you."

By his reddening cheeks and indignant splutters following that statement, I was the victor of this argument, and so, I took a moment to reflect on my triumph.


End file.
